Beyond the Call of Duty
by VelocityGirl1980
Summary: Details of a shadowy organisation operating within London have come to light, and Ros Myers and Lucas North are on the case. Thinking the investigation is going nowhere, things take a sudden turn for the worse when a young journalist connected to the gang leader turns up dead. They find themselves on a clandestine path deep into London's underworld. Ros/Lucas; Harry/Ruth
1. Popping the Question

**Summary:** Details of a shadowy organisation operating within London have come to light, and Ros Myers and Lucas North are on the case. Thinking the investigation is going nowhere, things take a sudden turn for the worse when a young journalist connected to the gang leader turns up dead. They find themselves on a clandestine path deep into London's underworld. AU, and two major pairings: Harry/Ruth and Lucas/Ros.

**Author's Note:** My first ever attempt at a full Spooks fanfic, and really very nervous about it! I own none of this, all credit to BBC/Kudos. I hope people enjoy (even though this is just a short introductory chapter), and reviews would be appreciated. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter One: Popping the Question (Introduction).**

Roisin Hicks lit her fifth cigarette of the day – her fourth since giving up smoking at the stroke of midnight. But, she reasoned as she straightened her skirt and strode off towards her office, she was celebrating. Cigarettes smoked during celebratory occasions don't count, everyone knew that. It all started seven days ago, when she found – quite by accident – the jeweller's receipt in the pocket of Darren's jeans as she went to load them into the washing machine. She could recall, with acute precision, the moment when she held the crumpled scrap to the sunlight, and picked out the gratifyingly large sum of money he'd spent on just one ring. She racked her brains for alternative explanations for his purchasing such an item, and several crowded in all at once. He's having an affair; it's for his Mam, or ... her thoughts trailed off as she fought to keep her emotions in check.

Thus, her seven days of anxiety had begun. Every time they fell into a natural silence, she would glance at him expectantly, careful not to speak a word lest she accidentally cut across him at this pivotal moment in their relationship. But normally, he would return her look with a frown, and resume regaling her with his opinions of the fluctuating fortunes of Celtic Football Club. She would hide her dismay; let his football waffle wash over her as if he were speaking a foreign language, and try to second guess the next opportunity for the question to be popped. The possibilities were frustratingly endless, and the question remained unasked.

Like a speeding train, she didn't see it coming. It was the previous night, in the car-park at the Bear and Ragged Staff pub just off Damascus Street. It was kicking out time, and they'd been disgorged from the building in a swell of other drinkers, cllinging to each other as though swept up in a tidal wave in which they'd proceeded to become separated from one another anyway. When they found each other again, he was breathless and disheveled. His dark eyes glittered in the floodlit grounds, and it was right there and right then that he finally took the plunge and asked. Not exactly down on one knee, but with the open box out in the palm of his trembling hand. She didn't answer, she just sort of squealed, and kissed him deeply, passionately. His hands crept up to her breast, the one on the left – he swore – was that little bit sweeter than its counterpart.

So, Roisin was happy. She glanced to her left, checking her ghostly reflection in a shop window and noting that even the slight smudge of her lipstick only added to her euphoria; the way her heels made her walk with a slight wobble in her step only made her feel more alive. Nothing was going to dent her happiness. Not even the prospect of another meeting with Anthea Clements; despite how badly their first had gone. That woman was rude and frosty, Roisin had been disinclined to cooperate from the start. It was only the prospect of an apology that had made her agree to this second meeting.

She checked her watch; almost ten am. So immersed in her thoughts of Darren, and the eternity stretched out in front of them, she had neglected to get her breakfast. Rather than an abrupt, and frankly embarrassing, u-turn in the middle of the street, she carried on until a sudden change of direction could be naturally incorporated into her route. She paused at a zebra crossing, glanced left and right as the traffic drew to a gradual halt, and smiled at the man standing beside her, even though she'd never met him before in her life.

She reached a small patisserie and stepped inside, holding the door open for the zebra crossing man who had come to the same place. She ordered a lukewarm, over-priced and under-sized croissant, before setting off back towards the office. Her boss had called the previous evening, a message on the answer machine informed her of the new assignment waiting on her desk. The old tease give no more information than that. But, as she chewed the last of her croissant, she realised she couldn't summon up the enthusiasm for work. Not with Darren waiting at home for her with the promise of a night of passion in store.

Running almost twenty minutes late, she arrived at the arcade that formed a short cut to her office. She picked up her pace a little more, and shivered against the sudden chill of the shadowy arcade. There was never anybody about in this neglected part of the city; the shops were boarded up and only a stray vagabond populated the once sparkling awnings. Today, there was no sign of even him. But she was not alone. Footfalls fell into step with her own just as her mobile phone burst into life from deep within her shoulder bag. She halted suddenly to answer it. Expecting it to be her boss, she had the excuse already to hand for her lateness. She dug around frantically, shoving aside the empty, dented ciggaratte packets; matted make-up brushes and a winter's worth of crumpled pocket tissues. Somewhere, in that tomb of detritus, her phone rang off. She cursed, got ready to make a run for the office, but stopped short as she noticed the man at the zebra crossing, the same one in the patisserie, had stepped out in front of her from within one of the old shop awnings. Flustered, she went to excuse herself, but before the words left her lips, she had ceased to exist.

The bullet entered via her recently praised left breast, tore through her heart and smashed its way back out of her body through her shoulder blade, taking a stream of gore with it. Her heart pulvarised, she was dead before she hit the ground. A narrative cut short, a loose thread left hanging, Roisin Hicks, the bride to be, didn't feel a thing when her finger was severed, engagement ring still attached.

* * *

No answer; straight to voice mail. Ros Myers jabbed the 'end call' button on her phone and sighed impatiently as she slipped the device back in her jacket pocket. Ten more minutes was all she could afford, and if her potential new Asset had not arrived in that time, then she would have to get angry. And was she worth it? She was a journalist in a small-time, local newspaper who just happened to have fallen into some very dubious company. From what Ros could tell, the daft bint wasn't even aware of it. She was going to be a handful, and for what?

Distracted, Ros began unconsciously chewing at the nail of her index finger, weighing up the cost and comparing it to the effort involved. It all seemed very disproportionate. All around her swarms of people on lunch release from their offices, she felt like the perfectly still eye at the center of a human storm. Still, that is, until her mobile phone chimed shrilly into life, vibrating gently against her ribs in a dual assault of an intrusion.

"Ros Myers," she declared brusquely, turning to face the Thames in an attempt to shut out the ever swelling crowds.

"Ros, it's Lucas."

She breathed a sigh of relief; now she could have a chance to walk away from this place without looking like a jilted lover and attracting the maddenly sympathetic stares of strangers.

"Any news?" she asked.

"Something's come up, I need you back at Thames House, now."

"I'm on my way."

No questions asked, Ros set off immediately towards the spot where she'd left the car. Anything was better than hanging around a streets waiting for a low-grade, would-be Asset that couldn't even afford you the courtesy of showing up. She reached the car in double-quick time, casually tore off the parking ticket she'd picked up and tossed it into the bin before revving the engine into life.

* * *

Lucas let the papers he was holding drop to his desktop and buried his face in his hands. It was one of those cases that started off small, but was threatening to mushroom into something major. Each small incident seemed to light the path a few steps ahead, leading them deeper into a treacherous wilderness. He rubbed his eyes, cleared his mind, and sipped at now cold cup of tea that had sat, almost completely forgotten, at his elbow. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he was about to dispose of it when Ros finally emerged on the Grid.

He waved her over, snatched up the papers from his desk and got up to take her aside. But the moment she got within hearing range, she began holding forth: "Bloody Asset didn't turn up," she stormed irritably as she slumped into Lucas's recently vacated seat. "I waited for an hour, and no show. Which means I'll have to go sniffing around her flat-"

"Ros, listen," Lucas interjected the moment she paused for breath, "she's dead."

"What?" asked Ros, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear and glaring at Lucas from across the desk.

"Homeless guy found her body in an old Arcade," Lucas explained, handing over the papers he had been studying. "It was a short cut to her office she used every day; the homeless guy even knew her name. It's definitely her, Ros. I think this is bigger than you realise."

Ros took the papers and read in silence. Meanwhile, Lucas looked about the Grid. The only sounds now are Ruth shuffling papers; Malcolm tapping interminably at a keyboard – probably hacking into the FSB for fun – and Harry, locked in his office and raging into his telephone. With the door closed, no sound comes out, and it looks like someone simply pressed a mute button. He smiled as he watched the muted Harry Pearce gesticulating wildly. No doubt they would end up having to send in the big guns – or, Ruth as she was more commonly known – to calm him back down again.

"This came from Scotland Yard?" asked Ros, her voice cutting across his thoughts, jolting him out of his reverie. "Ring finger severed? What's that all about? Nothing taken - except a finger - burglary ruled out. When did this come in?"

"An hour ago," Lucas confirmed. "Do you have any idea what we're dealing with here?"

Ros rolled her eyes. "That was the point of me buttering up a new Asset, Lucas: so I could bloody well find out," she retorted. "All we know is, that boyfriend of hers had some seriously dodgy connections, and now we're back to square one."

"Let it go and hope for the best?"

"Not a chance!"

It was a vain hope. Appearances could be deceptive, and they still didn't know how much of a threat these people posed. It could be something, it could be nothing. But while a shadow of doubt remained, Lucas knew they had to get back in there and find out.

"Better run it past the boss, first," said Lucas, with a nod to Harry's office. "I say we go round there, check out the boyfriend, bring him in. Take it from there."

Ros nodded, glanced over towards Harry's office. The incendiary phone call had ended, but he was still glowering dangerously at his computer screen. It must have been the Home Secretary.

"Do you want to ask him?"

Ros's question was rhetorical. In unison, they both turned to their left, and as one they chorused her name: "Ruth!"


	2. Where the Sun Never Sets

**Author's Note:** First up, I want to thank everyone for the reviews, I really appreciate your feedback! Secondly, I want to reiterate that I don't own any of this and this is not for profit. Thank you again for reading, and reviews are always appreciated.

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**Chapter Two: Where the Sun Never Sets.**

If he was lucky, the Police would arrive first. But given how bad his day had been so far, Darren O'Casey wasn't taking any chances. He already had a bag packed with a change of clothes; his toothbrush and toiletries had been unceremoniously stuffed into one of Roisin's old make-up bags and wrapped up in a towel. The bag lay, still spilling its contents, on the floor of the master bedroom, near the bed he had shared with Roisin for the last six months. He could still see the creases where her body had lain just the previous morning. When he touched it, he half-expected it to still be warm. He found it impossible – an aberration of nature – to equate the intimacy of his memories of her with the body that now lay stone cold on a mortuary slab.

With one final look at the unmade bed, he turned from the room and descended a small flight of steps into the living room. He pulled out the settee with a shove; pushing it straight into the coffee table and knocking it over with an almighty crash of glass smashing against the wood decking floor. Cursing heavily, he kept the rest of his attention on the Safe into which he hastily jabbed a combination number. Once inside, he pulled out a roll of banknotes, a clear plastic bag containing an unknown quantity of Colombia's finest marching powder and a handgun. Concealed beneath a false floor, however, was several ounces of plastic explosive and detonators. He took the Semtex and carefully replaced the false floor. The detonators could stay; so long as they were well away from the explosives, he knew they were useless.

He got up to return to the bedroom, and pulled up short at the sound of footsteps in the hall, muffled voices whispering to one another. He slid down to the floor, making himself as small as possible. He thought of running, but there was only one way out. He looked about for somewhere to hide, but the flat is open plan, and these are not men who give up easily. Then, just seconds later, he heard the deathly efficient metallic click of another gun being cocked, heard the slide of the bullet entering the chamber and swallowed the gorge of bile rising in his throat as the weapon was placed gently at the back of his head.

"Going somewhere?" the soft Cockney voice enquired.

Darren froze. Slowly, he turned his head to see from where his imminent death was coming, and felt the breath being almost physically knocked out of his lungs. "You!" he gasped, wide-eyed in shock and disbelief.

The other man smiled, the gun still trained on Darren O'Casey's head. "Come along now, Dee. Let's not make this any harder than it already is, eh?"

* * *

It was at an unconscionably early hour of the morning when Ruth arrived on the Grid and sunk gratefully into her seat. She still needed tea, but that could wait a moment while she got her breath back after her dash across London. While that happened, however, she fished in her bag and pulled out the file she had created for Roisin Hicks the night before. There was nothing sensational in there, but she thought there was just enough to pique Harry's interest, after all.

She genuinely hoped so. The day before, when Ros and Lucas had turned to her to talk to Harry, she gladly agreed. But the Boss man was implacable – it was a police matter; a straightforward murder. Truth be told, her intuition had already kicked in, reminding her uncomfortably of the Cotterdam affair. What appeared to be a clear suicide had turned out to be …

Ruth cut that comparison off abruptly, and focused on young Roisin. It didn't do to dwell on the past, but just like that man, this dead young woman was trying to tell her something, and she had to figure it out. If she was going to figure it out, then she definitely needed tea. She switched on her computer, and while it booted up, made a beeline for the drinks machine.

It was eight-thirty am by the time Harry joined her on the Grid. She was on him as soon as he set foot through the door, before he could even shrug off his over-coat. "Harry!" she called out, raising her head above her monitor.

He looked at her, alarm giving way to dismay. "Ruth!" he groaned, "what have I told you about working all night?"

As touched by his concern as she was, she was quick to set the record straight. "I haven't, I swear! I just wanted to see you before the others get here."

The dismay in Harry's expression rapidly melted away, reforming itself into a rather satisfied smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. It made her heart skip a beat every time she saw it. "You wanted to see me alone? Really?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "About Roisin Hicks-"

"Oh. That."

She never saw a smile fade so fast, and she hated to disappoint. "Just five minutes of your time," she said, tilting her head to one side, giving him the eyes. "Please!" She hated to resort to such vulgar means, but Ros and Lucas were relying on her, and they'd be on the Grid themselves in less than half an hour.

Harry was powerless to resist, but only capitulated with a sigh of resignation that didn't bode well. "Two minutes starting from now," he compromised, "in my office."

Flattening her small smile of triumph, Ruth followed Harry to his private office, hugging her files close to her chest. She dropped them on his desk the moment he got his feet under the table and stood back as he read through the report.

"You'll see where we went wrong before, Harry," she explained as he continued to read. "It's not her; it's the boyfriend: Darren O'Casey."

Harry frowned. "I had him down as a small time gangster, what on earth was he doing with this journalist?"

"That's odd; that's really odd. Either she didn't know who he really was; or he didn't know who she really was-"

Harry laughed mirthlessly. "If they're anything like us then neither knew who they really were!"

Ruth sighed in disapproval. "Not funny. But look, O'Casey runs the East End, pretty much. He's got two nightclubs, a boxing club and a healthy protection racket that spreads all through the East of the city. Recently, he's had a falling out with his counterpart in South London, but we don't know why, or how badly. That, in my opinion, is why Roisin was murdered."

"As part of a turf war, perhaps?" asked Harry, suddenly serious. "If this is correct, O'Casey has links to some very shady characters in Dublin."

Ruth, back in her element, leaned against the desk, closer to Harry. "That's why Ros was trying to get Roisin as an Asset," she explained eagerly, "she was perfectly placed to dig up sound information on O'Casey and his cohorts here, and in Dublin. It could be other gangsters, it could even be paramilitary. That's what Ros was trying to find out."

The day before, Harry had mockingly derided O'Casey and his gang as wannabe Kray Brothers. There was no lingering doubt left in Harry now; his expression was that special kind of blank that meant his brain was going into over-drive. "If he is facilitating an attack from dissident Republicans on British soil, this could set Anglo-Irish relations back forty bloody years!"

"It gets worse," Ruth warned. "If this is a turf war, as well as a possible diplomatic incident with our new friends, then things could turn very ugly on the streets of south and east London."

* * *

A thin ray of sunlight slanted through a crack in the boarded up windows, illuminating nothing more than a patch of dusty old floorboard that was directly in its path. Disorientated; exhausted, and in excruciating pain from a recently received kicking, Darren used that thin ray of light to focus all his energies on. It was all he had to escape the horror that lurked in the glutinous darkness of the room. But, he couldn't block out the sounds coming from those same shadows.

At first, it was a knife slowly being sharpened. The noise of the metal blade being gradually teased across the rough sharpener set his teeth on edge, the whole charade manufactured to deliberately drive him beyond reason with fear. Then it was the men pacing back and forth as they fired questions at him. Then the knife sharpening began again. The cycle continued. He had given them nothing, but he had lost track of time – the first step on the road to serious mental torture. He looked again at the shaft of light, trying to work out from the angle how high the sun was.

Then, even that was snatched from his as a one hundred watt bulb was suddenly shone directly in his face, just as a disembodied fist slammed into his stomach, making him double over and fall out of the chair he'd recently been propped up in. A box was opened, and the contents shoved under his nose on the floor. A single, human and severed finger, a diamond engagement ring still attached to it. The sight registered, and he vomited violently over the bare wooden floorboards.

"Why?" he demanded to know, spitting the acrid bile from his mouth. "Why her?"

His tormentor appeared in the broad pool of light, and dropped to his haunches in front of Darren. Looking down at the man now writhing in his own sick, he wrinkled his nose in disgust, and looked away into the shadows.

"She was a journalist, you know that?" he asked, heaving a bark of dry laughter. "Either you deliberately brought journalist scum into our gang to expose your friends while covering your own back; or you really have gone soft in the fucking head, old son. That's why I had to do it. That's why someone's got to take this patch over-"

"And it's got to be you, Frankie?" Darren hissed up at him, his old defiance rearing up seeing as he had nothing left to lose. He was going to die anyway, so he was determined to die fighting. "You betrayed me; you murdered Roisin to get at me, and now you're going to do a deal with the boys down south-"

"Oh, shut up!" roared Frankie. "You were doing a deal with your friends in Dublin. What the fuck was all that about? You were like a son to me, Darren. I thought I got you away from all that; I thought I taught you how to fight like a man. You took what you could, then tried to sell us out to the Irish. You know what, Dee, I'm pissed off. But I'd feel better if you told me where those detonators are."

Darren had guessed that much, but he remained silent.

"Tie 'im up; against the wall if you will, Gentlemen."

At least it would be quick. He put up no resistance as the plasticuffs were reapplied to his now swollen wrists, and allowed himself to be dragged across the floor to the wall, where he knelt as best he could. Still, he had to slump forwards to stop himself from falling. A second later, and the over-head lights came back on, but all he could see was the yellowing wallpaper. Footsteps, efficient and slow, paced up behind him as a gun was cocked, ready to fire.

Darren closed his eyes and braced himself for the head shot that was just a nano-second away. His heart beat furiously, even though he thought only of Roisin. He knew she was a journalist. He knew the real Roisin. He takes his final breath, and holds it as the hammer of the gun falls on an empty chamber. The last thing he heard as he passed out cold was the raucous laughter of Francis Morris and his new allies.

* * *

The corner of Ros's mouth twitched into a semi-smile as Lucas appeared through a parting of the crowds. She had decided to wait outside the car for him, leaning casually against the bonnet and breathing in deep lungfuls of the city smog as though it were a fresh, rustic, breeze. As soon as Lucas drew near, she spied the baker's box balanced in the palm of his hand.

"Don't tell me," she said, as soon as he managed to get close enough to hear over the din of London, "you've already eaten the one with the chocolate on?"

He looked affronted. "You don't even like the chocolate ones!" he protested, hastily swiping the tell-tale residual stains from his mouth with the sleeve of his free hand.

"I know, I just wanted to shame you," she retorted with a smirk as she zapped the keys at the car door to unlock them again. "Never mind, pass a strawberry jam one over before you scoff the lot."

Not waiting for Lucas to oblige, Ros reached into the box and picked her own doughnut as they got settled back in. "You know," she told him, "after eight years in a Russian prison you shouldn't even need these. You should be content to subsist on a diet of dried leaves and carpet cleaner."

She watched his reaction through the tail of her eye, gratified at the amused chuckle. The others on the Grid, with hearts firmly in the right place, always treated Lucas like he was made of glass. But Ros knew he was tougher than he looked: the gallows humour made him feel 'normal'; the kid glove treatment made him feel like a mad aunt being kept in the attic out of a misplaced sense of familial duty.

"You're wrong," he told her earnestly, "the dried leaf – note he singular, Myers – was for special occasions, only. Anyway, what have we got here?"

Turning to business, he opened the glove compartment where he'd stashed the two files handed to him by Ruth back at the Grid. One showed a picture of a girl with windswept blond hair, a toothy smile but distant blue eyes. On the back, the name "Roisin Hicks" was immaculately printed in block capitals in Ruth's familiar hand. It informed them she was twenty-seven at the time of her death; worked for the London Journal newspaper and moved to England from Belfast, Northern Ireland, nine years ago to attend Liverpool's John Moore University. Nothing spectacular; nothing out of the ordinary. Except that the woman wound up dead on a London street with a bullet through her heart for reasons unknown.

"I think Ruth's right you know," said Ros, before taking the last bite of her doughnut. "It's not her – she's just the innocent caught up in this. But look at the boyfriend."

Lucas closed Roisin's file, and picked up the second marked: Darren O'Casey. There was much more in it. The picture showed a brown haired, green-eyed and square-jawed Dubliner. Twenty-nine, with convictions for drug dealing, owning a gun without a license, grievous bodily harm and breaking and entering since his arrival in England over fifteen years previously.

"According to the Police file, he was 'reformed' courtesy of one Francis Morris," Ros explained, turning the keys in the ignition now that their lunch was over. "By reformed, I mean taken into a much more genteel criminal gang and put to much better use in the east end ganglands."

"Charming," Lucas sighed, closing the file. "So, how are we going to get him to talk to us while we're pretending to be Police officers?"

"We're there to offer victim support," replied Ros, "go softly, that's all. He might talk if he thinks we're only there to offer all that touchy-feely crap. I get him outside, you fit the bug in the phone, and we're off. You might even be able to grab a few items of interest, if we're lucky."

As they crawled through the London traffic, Lucas tried to imagine Ros taking a 'softly, softly' approach with anyone – never mind an ex-career criminal. By the time they reached the O'Casey residence in Bethnal Green, it was almost three pm. The building was a three-storey Georgian house divided into much sought-after apartments, the third floor of which belonged to O'Casey. The front door was already open when they arrived, it swung ajar as Ros went to sound the buzzer for O'Casey's flat. They glanced at one another, each noting the unusual lapse in London security, and stepped inside.

It was silent. Presumably, the other occupants of the flats were still at work, unaware of the murder of their neighbour. Together, they climbed the stairs, the thick carpet muffling their footfalls nicely. It was clean; well kept; respectable. A gentrified slum in the once notorious East End. They reached the highly polished front door of the third and final apartment and knocked loudly, their false identity badges at the ready. Waiting in silence for a few minutes, Lucas gave Ros a small nudge, and nodded to the edge of the door, just where the lock was.

Ros saw it, too. A great chunk of the door had been wedged off where the lock had been jemmied off. Tentatively, Ros reached out and prodded the door, and watched as it swung silently open to reveal a dark hallway.

Lucas was the first in. He reached beneath his jacket where his gun was holstered safely, and touched it for reassurance as he entered the hallway. Ros was barely a footstep behind him, keeping close as she struggled to adjust to the change in light. Just on the off-chance, she called his name. "Mr O'Casey!"

Then Lucas pitched in, too. "Mr O'Casey, it's the Police; we just want a quick word."

They clung to the wall, looked at one another and strained their ears, listening for even the remotest sign of life. But it was as silent as the crypt in there. Ros nodded to Lucas, a silent signal for him to carry on deeper into the flat. Tentatively, he backed down the hallway, nudging the doors open as he went. Slowly, they went from room to room, careful not to touch or disturb anything, not even opening the curtains to let the light in.

"Nothing," Ros remarked, once they had given the property an initial sweep. "But looks like we've been burgled."

"No," replied Lucas, "look, nothing of value has been taken. Computers, laptops, DVD player and TV. All still here, just knocked over."

They were in the living room. The sofa had been pulled out, a coffee table knocked over and smashed, and books scattered about the room. Ros watched Lucas for a moment as he ducked behind the sofa and began prodding at something. Meanwhile, she picked up a laptop and placed it on the sofa where she would see it and remember to take it with her when they left.

"Ros, come and see this," said Lucas's muffled voice from behind the sofa.

She put down the PC tower she had just disconnected, and stepped around the broken glass to see what Lucas was looking at. He was half-concealed in a great hole in the wall – a safe. He wriggled out again, tousling his hair so that it was standing on end as he did so, and pointed at the floor of the safe. "A false bottom," he said. "There's drugs and ammo being kept in the main safe; yet something more hidden in the false floor – detonators. Look."

Ros took the detonators, holding them gingerly in their bag. They were no bigger than a ten pence piece, but could cause damage enough to wipe a whole street out if attached to a wad of Semtex. "No sign of any explosives?"

"Not that I can see."

"Whoever turned this place over-" she broke herself off as she recalled something in the bedroom. "Wait there."

She backtracked through the flat, down the hallway, and into the master bedroom again. There, next to the bed, a hastily packed bag. The contents were spilling over the sides, on the very top was a creased photograph showing Darren with his arms wrapped around a smiling Roisin Hicks.

"He was packing his bags, but they're still here," she told Lucas as she re-entered the up-turned living room. "I get the feeling Mr O'Casey hasn't just popped out for a pint of milk, Lucas."

"So." he replied, rocking back on his heels, "you don't think whoever forced their way in here was an over-enthusiastic well-wisher, either?"

She rolled her eyes, and turned back to the room to gather up the laptops, phones and computers. Anything that could shed some light on where their man could have got to. God knows how long it would take them to comb the flat for the evidence they needed.

* * *

The rear doors of the transit van opened, letting in a flood of light that made Darren wince and strain against his bindings. The plasticuffs dug deeper into his wrists, bringing a fresh trickle of blood seeping into the palms of his hands as his captors hauled him out of the van by the armpits, letting his feet drag across the loose gravel path to the water's edge.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the influx of light, he could see they were in London's Dockyards. It was the last remaining mile of dockland that had yet remained untouched by the mauling hands of the architects and urban regenerators. It was that part of the docklands where the ruins of the old British Empire still stood rusting, half immersed in the waters of the Thames and hadn't yet given up the ghost of the past and crumbled into the dirty river. The gateway to the world made redundant by the advent of air travel. The wreckage of cranes, wharfs and even the odd, abandoned ship lay rusting in their long forgotten ports. It was like stepping into an old movie.

He took it all in to distract himself from what was happening two feet behind him. Off in the distance, the sun was setting. The horizon burned golden with the final rays of sun, a flock of geese swooped downwards from the sky, honking noisily and landing in the mudflats a few yards upriver. It felt surreal to him, to be watching the colour drain from the land.

"Still no sign of his detonators?" a man asks. "This is stupid."

Darren was no longer listening, he was lost in the landscape – it looked like a painting. He had forgotten that London could look like that. St Paul's Cathedral was just a silhouette in the distance.

"One more chance to save yourself, O'Casey. Tell us where your detonators are."

Yes, he thinks, the sun set is beautiful. But the place he's going is like the old Empire, it's where the sun never sets. He picks out Westminster Abbey. The grandeur and the squalor always rubbed shoulders in this city; since time immemorial. He's not telling them where the detonators are. They'll kill him anyway, and he just doesn't want them to know.

"Oh, fuck this!"

The gun shot shatters the silence of the dusk, sending the Geese scattering skywards. The velocity of the bullet through his head pitched him forwards, dead before he hits the muddy banks of the Thames.


	3. The Business Associates

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, the response has been terrific, and it is all gratefully received, so thank you. The usual disclaimers apply: I own none of this. I hope people enjoy this chapter, and please review. Thank you!

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**Chapter Four: The Business Associates.  
**

Sparky the Spaniel strained on his leash to choking point and pulled along his exasperated owner, Clara Walsh, in his wake. She felt as though she were the one being taken for a walk, rather than the other way around. But, it was the same route they walked every evening, and she knew he was eager to get to the water. They reached the stretch of abandoned Docklands just as the sun set, later than usual and Clara was keen to get home before sundown. The derelict buildings, rusting ships still bobbing in the old ports and the shadowy cranes gave her the creeps after dark. With that in mind, Clara relented and pulled with all her might to bring her wayward dog to heel, and then knelt down to set him free.

He was off like a dart, snuffling through the undergrowth cocking his leg at all his favourite tree stumps and picking up the alluring musk of canines past. Clara paused in the pathway to wrap the lead around her wrist and get her breath back for a minute. Work had run on late, meaning she had arrived home to find Sparky in a frenzy of stored up energy with his lead already hanging from his saliva dripping jaws – her dog was ever the optimist.

After a full minute, she realised Sparky had vanished and, eager to catch him up, she set off down the path again. It was then that she noticed the van parked on the waste land near the docks themselves. Odd. She had never known anyone venture to that part of the docklands, before. Even other dog walkers preferred the gentrified, cultivated areas where they could stop for a coffee. She veered off the path and into the thicket of trees where she had last seen her dog just as a loud bang shattered the stillness of the evening air. In the distance, Sparky yelped in alarm and came crashing back towards her through the undergrowth, cowering behind her legs.

"There there," she soothed him, scratching behind his ears. "It was just a car back-firing. Probably some old rust bucket. Silly dog."

For the dog the shock was a momentary, fleeting thing, and he soon darted off again to resume his scenting and sniffing. But Clara had become uneasy. Seconds after the noise, which truthfully to her sounded more like a gunshot, the van's engine revved into life and pulled away after she caught a small glimpse of a man dressed in a black suit climbing into the back. She froze, and watched until it had disappeared. Unconsciously, she had already reached into her jacket pocket for her mobile phone for reassurance.

It was Sparky's furious barking that brought her back to her senses. She pushed her way through the last of the bushes and emerged onto the banks of the Thames to see him swimming in the dirty water. Any minute now, he would turn around, swim ashore and come dashing up to her. Then, the wretched animal would shake himself down and shower her in the acrid waters of the Thames.

"Oh no, Sparky, bad boy!" she admonished pre-emptively. "Not the water, Sparky, no!"

It was futile. She could barely see him in the rapidly failing light, and his barking had ceased as quickly as it had begun. But as she squinted through the gloom, she could see he had something clamped in his jaws as he swam ashore. Whatever it was, it wasn't so very far out and Sparky was soon back on the banks of the river, still dragging the mystery object.

Back on dry land, Sparky stopped and barked loudly again, his tail wagging furiously at the new game he'd embroiled himself in. The sight didn't register with Clara at first. Her first thought was that it was a shop mannequin. Or a dummy used in the life saving exercises that were sometimes carried out on the river, one that could simulate a drowning man. But there was something about the all too real way in which the waterlogged limbs were spread out, something about the all too real shape and contours of the body that told her she was being naïve.

With her heart in her throat, Clara walked slowly, mobile phone clenched in her sweating hands, towards the corpse. "Oh, Sparky," she whispered, not even daring to blink, "oh my God. Oh dear God."

* * *

Lucas awoke the next morning to find his jawline dark with the threat of an imminent beard. He put the radio on, left it beside the open bathroom door and happily hummed along to the Oasis song being played as he shaved closely. The track slowly faded into an early morning news broadcast, and Lucas' attention began wandering ahead, pondering his imminent breakfast as the news anchor's words drifted into the bathroom:

"Police have confirmed that the body found in London's east end by a young woman out walking her dog is that of missing Nightclub owner, Darren O'Casey..."

Lucas froze mid razor stroke and listened with rapt attention.

"...twenty-nine year old Mister O'Casey moved to London from Dublin fifteen years ago, and was engaged to be married to the twenty-seven year old woman found murdered two days previously. The cause of death was said to have been a single gun-shot wound to the head, although the victim had also sustained severe injuries from earlier incidents, raising concerns that East London is facing a resurgence in gang warfare..."

"Shit!" Lucas cursed.

He rushed the rest of his shave, carelessly splashed on some Cologne and dashed into the living room where his phone still rested in his jacket pocket. Scrolling through the names and numbers, he came to a halt at Jo Portman and hit the call button. While Jo's phone rang, Lucas drummed his fingers on the handrail in impatience. Eventually, a husky, half-asleep voice answered:

"This better be bloody good, Lucas. It's still night time."

"Well, rise and shine because I need you to do something for me," he said, trying to inject a little enthusiasm into his tone in the hope that it would rub off on Jo.

It didn't. "Now?" she groaned down the line at him. It was followed by an ill-stifled yawn.

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, Jo," he tried to assure her. "A woman has found O'Casey's body and already been to the Police. We need to find out who she is and bring in her in before anyone else does. It's urgent."

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling static on the line.

"Isn't that the Gangster guy?" she asked, but without waiting for an answer, she added: "Shit! I'm on it, Lucas. Don't worry."

"One more thing," he said before she could hang up, "I'm asking you because I think you will be... more easy going with her. I don't know how young, but she's young, and I want her handled with care."

A moment of silent understanding passed between them: don't go all Ros Myers on her.

"No worries, Lucas. I won't let anything bad happen."

"Thanks, Jo. I appreciate it."

The call ended, leaving Lucas alone once again in the silence of his flat. He decided to skip breakfast, substituting it instead with a cup of tea strong enough to dance a donkey on before he finally dressed for the day ahead. He selected clothes like he selected new identities; the Lucas North tormented by his past made the smooth transition to Lucas North, the self-assured MI5 Officer, calm and even handed even the most demanding of crises. It was like the donning of invisible armour, it was something to hide in to get him through the day ahead.

* * *

The silence in Charlie Weir's Office was a natural one, during which his two companions sipped at Earl Grey tea as they mulled over the day's news. The only sound was the occasional chinking of china cup tapping delicate china saucer, backed up by the rhythmic ticking of an old Grandfather Clock pushed against the back wall. The air was heavy with the smell of wax resin, the polish used to shine every surface in the room. He raised a brow as his cleaner entered the room after a soft knock on the polished oak door, poking his head coyly around the aperture.

"Not now, Alexei, we're busy," he informed the young man, not unkindly. He waved the young man away with a smile and a hand raised in farewell.

Once the door closed again, Charlie turned back to the other two. Sat on the opposite side of his desk was Frankie Morris, looking pale and drawn after a long night. The only thing that betrayed his nerves was the tremble in his hand as he raised the cup to his lips.

"You were saying, Frank, there was a problem with last night's operation?" asked Charlie, his tone even. There was no point in panicking, so he measured his words and trod softly.

"We were seen," replied Frankie. "Only by some woman out walking her dog. But she got a good long look at me, she did." He broke off and turned to the third man in the room. "I trust your boys can do something about that, Tom."

Tom gave a small start, as though Frankie had jolted him out of some deep daydream. "She's going to be interviewed later today; her name's Clara Walsh and I think you worry too much," Tom explained. "Just give me the murder weapon and someone small, someone who has no family here, someone who won't be missed, and I'll make sure they go down for it -"

"But what about the girl?" Frankie cut him off, his voice quavered with irritation, now. Frown lines were stark on his brow.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Like I was saying," he began, pointedly, "give me someone small, and I can convince the girl it was him she saw. Then when this is over you can do what you like with her. No one will know, they'll think she's in witness protection. It'll bloody cost you, mind."

Charlie watched the exchange as if it were a tennis match, his grey eyes darting from one to the other until he felt it was time to intervene.

"Thank you, Chief Superintendent," he interjected, cutting off Tom's latest riposte to Frankie's long list of worries. "I'll make sure you get what you need, and we're all very appreciative of your cooperation."

"And a token of your appreciation?"

"Ah, yes," Charlie reached into the top drawer of his desk, rummaged around until he found his cheque book and a fountain pen. All back handers came from the company account and made payable to another company account – no names mentioned, nothing personal. He completed the cheque by signing with a flourish and handed it over with a winning smile. "See to it that no other witnesses come forward, and we can get this case, and Roisin Hicks', closed and consigned to History as quick as you may."

The transition was supposed to be smooth. The girl disposed of to beat O'Casey back into line, but he hadn't played ball. Then O'Casey was disposed of, the merge almost completed, and now an investigation that had already attracted public attention. Even with a Chief Superintendent on board and looking the other way, it was getting messy. Tom Mortimer, however, seemed happy. He glanced at the cheque with an appreciative smile before tucking it into his shirt pocket.

"Will that be all, Gentlemen?" he asked, already rising to his feet. "I have other business to attend to."

The other two, Frankie and Charlie, nodded. As the door opened, Charlie noticed Alexei the cleaner still hovering behind the door. Listening in? Quite possibly. But Charlie wasn't worried; he never worried. But he did send the young man down to the bar to begin preparations for opening up lest he should overhear anything else inconvenient.

Once they were alone again, Charlie poured himself another cup of tea, ignoring the fact that it had gone almost stone cold.

"Now he's fucked off we can talk real business," he said to Frankie, offering him another cup. "Tell me, it must have been hard disposing of your former right hand man, like that?"

Frankie laughed mirthlessly. "All for the greater good," he remarked wryly. "He would never have come on board. He had ideas of his own, and let's just say they wouldn't have benefited you and your men."

Charlie steepled his fingers contemplatively. "I heard he was planning on letting some of his old friends in Ireland blow up one of my pubs. It would look like a strategic hit for them, but really it would have been a warning to me – everyone's a winner," he recounted thoughtfully, his voice smooth and resonant, did not betray even a flicker of anger. "Clever boy that one. You'll miss him, I think."

Frankie shrugged. "Look, he had friends. Friends who may prove … problematic."

"You mean there is still opposition to our firms merging?"

"The perception is that you and I will be running east and south London together, reaping the best of the harvest and leaving only the chaff for everyone else," explained Frankie. "Some of Darren's old friends think they'll be frozen out because of their, er, former associations. Others think the East End will become the lesser partner to the South. Most are with us, but those who aren't are the ones we may need to watch."

"Watch?" Charlie repeated with a dry laugh. "Stop fretting, Frankie. We'll deal with the opposition. We have our ways. But, first things first, I need a patsy for our murder, and I think I already have someone in mind."

Frankie looked far from mollified, but he got up anyway, sensing his audience with the King of the South side was over. "I'll sound out the others in the east end, then," he explained by way of excusing himself.

Charlie looked up from where he'd just hunched over some paperwork. "All right then," he replied, extending his hand to shake. "Send in Alexei when you see him."

Charlie watched as Frankie got to the door, his hand grasping the handle, then called him back again. "Oh, and one more thing, hang on to that plastic explosive you found at O'Casey's flat. It might come in useful."

Frankie arranged his face, smoothing out the surprise. "Oh, you know about that," he said, "well, we've no detonators. But perhaps we can sort that out."

Charlie smiled broadly as he reclined in his seat, weighing up his new business parter from top to toe. "Quite," he finally replied. He was trying to keep secrets from him, and they hadn't even finished the transaction yet. It didn't bode well.

* * *

Breaking the encryption on the computers had been child's play for Malcolm. Lucas watched, transfixed, as he tapped away at the keyboard clicked a few icons and broke the hard drives wide open. It all seemed to happen so fast, but disappointment was hard on the heels of their success. Ruth hovered nearby their bay, looking over Malcolm's shoulder as files were opened up, records scrutinised for anything unusual. But all they found were business transactions. Occasionally, Lucas would point at the screen, ask what it was, only to find more business transactions.

"He's not even storing any porn on there," Ruth observed mildly.

Lucas and Malcolm both jerked around in their seats to look at her agape.

"What?" she defensively retorted.

"Porn?" Lucas repeated, eyebrows raised in a fine arch. "You sound disappointed."

Ruth lightly swatted him with the papers she clutched. "Less of that," she chided, but smiled all the same. "What I mean is, a man of that age, you'd expect it. But there is literally nothing on there. Just records of his businesses."

"Well, that's a start," said Malcolm. "Anyway, he must have cleaned the hard drive only recently. Or installed a new Operating System, because it's an old model, just with nothing on it. Laptop was the same."

Lucas decided to leave them both to it. He passed the pods, exiting the Grid and walking outside Thames House altogether. He looked up and down the busy streets outside, searching for any sign of either Ros or Jo. All he could see was the steady two-way stream of Office workers hurrying for their lunch breaks, a queue backed up cars snaking up the street like slugs in battle formation and the confusion of everyday life being played out on the open boulevards and side-streets of the vast, intricate city. A drunk is ejected from the pub across the road; an elderly lady is jostled along the busy pavements by the frantic crowds and drivers holler out of their open windows. But no sign of Jo or Ros.

He rubbed his eyes and wondered where they could have gotten to. They had a team meeting any moment, called by Harry to thrash out a plan of action for the Hicks and O'Casey cases. Jo, he knew, should have returned hours ago with their only witness. Ros had wanted her interviewed by that afternoon, and this latest setback would set the primer on Ros' infamous temper at a dangerous degree.

A bank of grey, pendulous clouds, heavy with the threat of rain, passed the sun and smothered its lukewarm rays. Lucas shivered in the shadows and was about to turn back towards Thames House when the taxi pulled over, and the lengthy leg of Ros Myers appeared from the open back door, swiftly followed by the rest of her. Her expression reflected the sudden change in weather perfectly.

"You would not believe the morning I've had," she muttered furiously as she thrust a twenty pound note at the driver before crossing to Lucas. "Not a single word from anyone."

"No one talked?" he asked, stepping backwards into the porch of Thames House to avoid the first drops of rain.

Ros followed him in, jerking her head forwards and gesturing for him to lead the way. "Not a soul," she replied. "I tried all the neighbours, the people in the next street and then tried the staff at O'Casey's boxing club. They all know, but no one's talking."

She strode ahead of Lucas, making him jog to keep up with her. "It's not entirely unexpected," he reasoned. "We knew already that these people wield a lot of power in the area, it's small wonder they're all so scared."

Ros merely tutted and carried on striding through the building until she reached Section D, but she barely broke her pace as she thrust the door open. "It feels like they're already several laps ahead of us and we're not even off the bloody starting blacks, Lucas," she said, raising her voice once there was no one to over-hear except for other members of their unit. "They're outsmarting us, Lucas, and all they are is a bunch of Gangster's who's reach has just exceeded their grasp."

With that, she dropped her handbag at her desk and made for the drinks machine. Lucas watched her as he returned to his own desk, almost bumping into Ruth as he did so. She teetered, righted herself before she fell, and apologised even though it was he who should have been looking where he was going. He grinned as he pointed it out, and by the time he had made amends to Ruth, Ros was back in place, and more importantly to him, the doors opened again, revealing Jo with a young woman. She was barely five foot five, with long dark hair that fell well past her shoulders and wide brown eyes. But the girl's skin was waxen, her eyes lined with dark circles, clearly she was exhausted. Even Jo looked harassed, her close cropped hair dishevelled, and her gaze darted about the Grid as though she expected to enter a different room in a different building.

Lucas jumped up and waved her over; Jo responded with visible relief, and pointed him out to the new girl who looked up at him only briefly. Jo was soon whisking her away to an interview room out the back.

"Wait there," Jo mouthed to Lucas as she passed.

Although concerned, Lucas waited patiently as Jo got the girl settled in and headed straight for the drinks machine. He looked across the room at Ros, who had also noticed the newcomer to the Grid. She looked at him, her expression completely blank, and gave a shrug. When Jo returned to him, she took him aside rather than into the interview room.

"That's our witness," she said, confirming what he had already suspected. "But listen, they really didn't want to let her go."

Lucas frowned. "They probably hadn't finished interviewing her."

Jo shook her head. "No, it was more than that. The Chief Superintendent himself showed up and started creating obstructions. He was delaying things, I am sure of it."

Lucas mulled it over for a full minute, racking his brains for hidden meanings in the behaviour of a man he'd never met. But he was aware of the witness still waiting for them, beside herself with worry over what was happening to her.

"It's probably nothing, you know how bureaucratic the Police are, but tell Ros anyway," he said, erring on the side of caution. "What name did you give her?" He then asked, referring to their witness.

"Vicky Holt," she replied, "and I told her you're Max Eddison, and you're a very nice man who won't get ratty every time she mentions her dog is all alone and her boss will be going crazy."

Lucas forced a smile. "That's awfully good of you. Shall we?"

Jo nodded, and set off back towards the interview room. Lucas, however, diverted at Harry's office and stuck his head around the door.

"Knock!" barked the Section boss.

"Sorry," chimed Lucas, not sounding it in the slightest. "Look, there's been a slight delay in getting our witness home. I think we may have to delay that team meeting."

Harry spun round in his seat to face Lucas, and his expression was not pleasant. Like a bull dog licking piss off a thistle. Not for the first time in his life, Lucas regrets not being Ruth.

"Every time you come to me about this case, it's going wrong, getting worse and being hit by new and imaginative setbacks, Lucas. This is not acceptable..."

Harry's stream of complaint followed him out of the office, but Lucas glanced back over his shoulder before he disappeared completely: "Thanks, Harry, I knew you'd understand."

He passed Ros, who glanced up at him and winked before looking back down at the analysis Ruth had just handed her. His heart skipped a beat as he snatched up a copy of the Official Secrets Act as he passed Malcolm's desk.

* * *

"Look, I dunno what this is now," the girl said in a rush as Lucas closed the interview room door behind him. "but I can't tell you any more than I just told the police. I saw almost nothing. Just a man in a suit getting in a big, black, Vauxhall van. Nothing else. I don't know how many times I need to repeat myself."

Jo sat beside her, her large blue eyes sympathetic as she listened to the spiel obviously for the umpteenth time. She acknowledged the girl's words with a mechanical nod.

"Max," she said to Lucas, "this is Clara. Clara, Max is going to be helping me take care of you."

Lucas hope his smile was a winning one as he extended his free hand towards the girl. She took it, but hesitantly and briefly. Up close, he could see that she was shaking. She could barely hold her tea cup. But the interview room was different to the interrogation suite. The lighting was subdued, the furnishing softer. It was temperate, and calming. Lucas hoped it worked its fen g-shui magic fast.

"First up, Clara," he said, "I'm more interested in whether this man saw you."

Clara looks at him, then at the paper in his hand. "Yes, he looked right at me. Put the fear of God into me."

"In that case, you must sign this," he replied, sliding the Official Secrets Act across the surface of the Formica topped table towards her. "Then we need to establish exactly what happened and when."

Clara turned her fearful gaze to the paper in front of her. "The Official Secrets Act," she repeated the words slowly, and looked back up at Lucas. Jo handed her a pen from her shirt pocket. Clara took it, trembling even more. "I don't know nothing," she repeated, her voice quavering with nerves. "What does this mean? Does this mean I can't go home? Can I phone my Mum? She'll be worried, and my dog; someone needs to walk my dog..."

Jo covered Clara's hand with her own, gently and reassuringly. "It's all right, Clara. We're MI5; everyone who comes here needs to sign this. We'll make sure the dog is looked after."

Clara picked up the pen, and gave one last look towards the door as though some unseen cavalry might arrive at any minute to help her out. The moment spun itself out, and nothing happened, no one came. Then, she looked back at the Act, and slowly put pen to paper, and signed along the dotted line.


	4. Two Plus Two Equals MI5

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read; reviewed, alerted and favourite this story; your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Also, apologies for the delay in this update, it was meant to be posted a few days ago but life conspired against me. Thank you again for reading, and reviews would be very much appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter Four: 2+2=MI5**

The atmosphere in the meeting room was unusually calm. Harry reclined in his seat at the head of the table, glancing over each of his Officers in turn as though in silent appraisal. His gaze, however, settled on Ruth sat at his right-hand side, and softened almost imperceptibly. Lucas took note of it, and suppressed a small, knowing smile. To everyone else it was as plain as day; if only Harry and Ruth themselves could be brought to admit it? He cut off his train of though and glanced across the table at Ros, as though he wanted to say something about it. But she was looking back at him, her jaw set firm her expression its usual glacial passivity, and brought himself back to the business at hand.

"We have one witness, Clara Walsh, secure in a safe house. Her intel is limited, but there are genuine concerns for her safety," he explained to the room as he got up, and flicked a remote at a screen. Instantaneously, a large black and white photograph of a middle aged man appeared. "This Gentleman is Francis Morris, aka Frankie: Darren O'Casey's closest business associate. Ruth, can you tell us what you have on him?"

The mention of her name always seemed to give Ruth a jolt, causing her to scrabble at her papers before swiftly pulling herself together. She and Lucas exchanged a glance as he returned to his seat and Ruth took his place at the head of the room, behind Harry's seat.

"Francis Morris is forty-six years old, and lives in Berkshire with his wife, Deborah Morris. One possible proposal is that we send someone in to sound her out as a possible Asset," Ruth explained, flicking another button on the remote, making the image of a well-kept woman appear on the screen. "However, what's more interesting is that Francis Morris has already taken over the running of Darren O'Casey's two nightclubs, with the Boxing Club being handed over to an, as yet, unidentified third party. The nightclubs are still sealed, so if we could get in there, we could rig the premises up. Malcolm, perhaps you have some suggestions?"

All eyes in the room turned to Malcolm, who was sat at the far end of the table opposite Jo. His eyes glittered with excitement as Ruth plunged him into his techie element.

"Well, there's the traditional phone tapping devices we can install, more in the wall cavities, and in a bar I suspect there's a myriad of places we could set up secret cameras," he explained, covering the obvious basics first. "If we get the bars, staff areas and private offices where the business is conducted under secret surveillance first, we can listen in any time of day or night and find out what they're up to."

As soon as natural pause came, Ros quickly filled it. "We know that O'Casey had detonators for explosives hidden in his flat. I want to know if that's what his old colleagues were looking for. If we pick up anything to do with that, we go in there under cover as potential arms dealers and catch them red-handed-"

"But first we need to get that information through surveillance," Harry interjected. "It's simple. You, Ros, call around to the main club posing as an interior designer. Take Lucas, your resident handyman, with you and rig up all the devices as you go along. In and out again, no interruptions. With a bit of luck, because it's the middle of the day, Morris won't even be on the premises. How does that sit with you both?"

Ros and Lucas exchanged another look across the table.

"I'm good to go," said Lucas, with a shrug.

Ros nodded almost imperceptibly. "Fine by me."

Harry smiled, satisfied that the investigation was finally moving forwards with a definite target in sight. He turned to Jo, with just a few loose ends to tie up.

"Jo, perhaps if you could call around to Deborah Morris's home with a nice bunch of flowers from her husband, that could be a good contact point and it would be easier to get her talking about him. Just put the feelers out for now," he said. "Then, after that, I want you to call in on Clara Walsh and bring a print out of this picture of our new esteemed friend, Mr Morris; see if that was the man she saw at the Docks on the evening of O'Casey's murder."

"Okay," she agreed, already getting to her feet. "Just get me an Interflora uniform and I'm good for it."

A murmur of agreement, a sigh of relief, rippled around the room as they all got up to start preparing for the first stages of the investigation proper. Ros had felt keenly that their quarry had remained two steps ahead of them, thus far, and their only credible witness had proven to have only limited use, while simultaneously turning out to be another endangered soul in need of protection.

To busy herself before the start of their field op, Ros contented herself with watching Lucas rifling through the various overalls and handyman-esque attire that was actually kept on the premises. It was an old one, but an invaluable one. She could see him through the open door of the gents as he dressed. He was leaning against the wall, balanced on one leg as he swapped his smart shoes for boots. It was odd to see him so unkempt, and his day-old stubble added a certain something to give him a rough edge appeal of the burly worker. She wasn't about to admit that, though.

"You look like Bob the Builder," she laughed as he straightened up, revealing his overalled finest in full. "All you need is the tool belt and damn cat."

He smirked at her as he topped his new ensemble off with a pale blue baseball cap. "Well, I'm certainly fixing it," he quipped, giving her a gentle nudge towards the door of the Grid.

Ros rolled her eyes. "That was painful, Lucas. Just painful." She pushed herself away from the wall and strode off towards the Ladies where she herself would change into a sharp suit, attempting to impersonate whatever it was that trendy interior designers looked like. Once that was done, they would finally be getting somewhere.

* * *

Channel hopping had lost its appeal a long time ago for Clara Walsh. Nevertheless, she pointed the remote at the flat screen three feet in front of her, and zapped again. Cookery shows; mind-numbing game shows; property development programmes and surreal reality TV. It had all lost its appeal over the last day or so. Ever since she had seen her first ever dead body, she felt that she ought to frown on such trivialities, like her life had taken on a new edge of seriousness that could no longer accommodate the mundane. Even "I Desperately Wish I Was Still a Celebrity … Get Me in There" had lost its quirky appeal, and normally she and her girlfriends would hungrily devour each twist and turn as though the fate of the nation depended on it.

Accordingly, and much more in keeping with the turn of austere seriousness that her life had just taken, Clara channel hopped all the way over to the BBC News Channel, However, in respect of the old Clara Walsh, the talking heads delivering the latest economic woes, endless foreign wars and tales of third world misery washed over her like last night's bath water. The voyeuristic eye of the TV news crews made her feel slightly dirty. Other people's misery always had a way of making your own seem almost pleasant.

It was too much. The new house she found herself in; it had a panic alarm and no outside phone line. She was told by her MI5 Officers that she was forbidden to make contact with the outside world. Not her friends, and not even her Mum. Her mother would worry, though. Janice Walsh had been the first person that Clara had contacted (after the Police) when she found the murdered body of Darren O'Casey. Now she had found herself sucked into an opaque bubble of witness protection; her existence in suspension until…. Until when, she did not know.

Clara's only ray of light was that at least Sparky had been allowed to come with her to this "safe house." He lay on the threadbare rug, curled up where the fire would normally be. Like his owner, the drudgery of this new place seemed to send him into something of a torpor. But, at least he could still chase rabbits in his dreams. She watched, his paw going into spasm as he chased them then, before the news readers voice cut into her thoughts and gave her a violent jolt:

"A nineteen year old Ukranian, Alexei Amaliyev, has been arrested on the suspicion of the murder of East London Businessman, Darren O'Casey. It is thought that Mister Amaliyev was working for a Business Associate of Mister O'Casey at the time of his murder…"

The news report continued as Clara looked on, horror struck, at the news item. The man she saw was much older than nineteen. The voices she briefly heard were all local Cockneys, not Eastern European.

"The murder weapon, a handgun, was found in Mister Amaliyev's belongings being held at his place of work in South London. He is being detained by the Metropolitan Police in central London, and is thought that he will be charged with murder of the first degree by this afternoon. Our Crime Correspondent brings us this report…"

The camera panned onto one of the Chief Superintendent that Clara had spoken to only the day before. She had forgotten his name, but the caption on the screen provided a timely reminder. Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, hastily scribbled down his name and rank before folding it into the back pocket of her jeans.

"... My Officers worked hard around the clock to bring this shocking murder to a speedy conclusion, and I congratulate them all…"

"No!" Clara found herself shaking her head, almost shouting at the screen before she remembered there was a man outside from MI5 listening in. "They've fit him up!" she whispered to no one, her head suddenly in a tailspin.

She had been suspicious of MI5 taking her in. The questions they asked, the way they had secluded her from her family. Now, they have set up an innocent man. It's what they do, she thought to herself, these spies. Two plus two equals MI5, and as far as she knew, she would be next. An accomplice, perhaps? She got up, pulling the dog by the collar to wake him before she made for the bedroom. She didn't have much with her, just an old shoulder bag and her purse with her cards in it. An old hoodie was stuffed into the bag, and she put on her trainers, lacing them tight before grabbing a ball for the dog. Once she was back downstairs again, she wrote a quick note that simply read: "I know you have the wrong man; gone to the Police."

She folded it, and left it behind the clock on the mantel piece above the empty hearth. The dog, Sparky, sniffed at her heels now, sensing a walk coming on. She clicked her fingers at him, showing him the ball.

"Come on, boy!" she trilled at him, trying to keep her tone even. But her nerves were shot.

The Officer assigned to her was sat in the kitchen, hunched over a copy of the Metro and looking thoroughly bored. He didn't look up as Clara and the dog entered the small kitchen area.

"I'm taking the dog into the garden," she said, still struggling to bite down the note of panic in her voice. "We'll be back in later."

She knew full well he would not simply let her wander off. But, to her relief, he simply lifts his heavy-lidded eyes from the print to her and nods. "Give us a shout if you need anything."

Not bloody likely, she thought as she closed the back door behind her.

The back garden was the size of a postage stamp, and heavily over-grown. But the cool, fresh air helped clear her head and plan her next move. She couldn't imagine why MI5 spies had set up that man, but that wasn't for her to suss. She had to get to the Police and let them know what had happened before they could get to her, too. She tossed the ball over the high garden wall, aware that the Officer was watching her from the kitchen window. She suddenly felt transparent; like the man could see beneath her skin and read her inner-most thoughts. But before she could dwell on that, she turned and ran back into the kitchen. The man was still at the table, though, and not watching her after all.

"The ball's gone over the wall, I better go get it," she informed the Officer.

He sighed audibly and closed the paper he was reading, rolling his eyes. "Stay here; I'll get it."

He got up to leave and she followed. He had to go two doors down, round a corner and into a back alley to retrieve the ball she threw. Time was scarce, so immediately she made a run for it in the opposite direction. The dog was still yapping in the back garden, and it pained her to leave him. But she had no time to fetch him. Her heart beat raced, sweat breaking out over her body as she willed her legs to run faster and faster. The street became a blur as she spun round a corner without slowing down, and had to grab a sign post to stop herself careering into the road.

Clara paused, looked up and down the street, but found herself at the mouth of the alley that ran behind her safe house. There was no sign of the Officer, but she heard his voice calling her name. He was in the street at the front of the house, and she had no doubt he would be in pursuit. She doubled over, took a deep breath, and immediately set off with no real notion of where she was going. All she knew was that she had to get as far away as possible, as soon as possible.

* * *

Jo Portman whistled as the detached house in the leafy suburb came into view. Set back from its neighbours, it was ringed by a wrought iron security fence that ran the perimeter of the emerald lawns. A sprinkler system sent up a dizzying fountain of sparkling water, that nourished the rose bushes and beds of hydrangeas that bordered the driveway and footpath to the large, whitewashed home of Frankie and Deborah Morris.

She parked her "borrowed" Interflora van on the pavement of the cul-de-sac, and pressed the buzzer on the intercom system. Peering through the bars of the gate, she looked for signs of life within the house itself. The woman may have a job of her own to go to, or could be out doing whatever Gangster's wives did on their endless afternoons. But before too long, a voice finally crackled over the intercom system.

"Hello? Who's there?"

Jo adjusted the cap of her new uniform, and smiled brightly. "Mrs Morris, my name's Katie, and I'm from Interflora. We have an anonymous delivery for you."

Silence, at first. But then: "Oh! My! Hang on there, Katie, I'll be out in a minute."

It was a nice move on Harry's front. People were always more inclined to talk when something unexpectedly nice had occurred. But their meeting was destined to be a short one, so she used the time she had before Deborah appeared to let down one of her tyres. She would fix that, and keep Mrs Morris talking while she did so. When she straightened up again, she saw Mrs Morris hurrying down the driveway dressed in a fitted track-suit. A thrill of excitement coursed through her as she prepared to make a new friend. Then, however, her phone chimed into life, making her curse under her breath.

She ignored the phone, and beamed at Mrs Morris. "From the husband, are they? Must be the romantic type!" It was lame, but it was a start.

* * *

Ros peered sceptically out of the window of their new van, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. Lucas had parked in a little side street used by the locals as a convenient tipping ground for unwanted furniture. The skeletons of bedframes, old door-less wardrobes with the hangers still clinging to the rail, and busted chests of draws were dumped hither and thither, blocking the access to most of the businesses nearby. There were the bins which had clearly become firm favourites of the local urban foxes. Refuse had been dragged out and scattered up the sides of the alleyway, leaving a trail of wreckage and a stench that hung heavy in the air. Reluctantly, Ros stepped out of the van, cautiously placing one delicate heel on to the grimy cobbles while clutching her clipboard and swatches close to her chest.

Lucas followed suit, admiring the contrast between Ros and her surroundings. She wore a tailored suit; crisp, cream coloured blouse beneath the snug fitted jacket. Not a hair out of place, nor a hem out of line. He had to suppress a snigger.

She caught him looking. "This isn't funny, Bob!"

He grinned as he moved towards the rear of the van to get his toolkit – the one with more than just hammer and nails in it. "Come on," he goaded her, "where's your sense of humour? Oh.. I forgot…" he left the rest of his riposte hanging as she shot him a look that oozed contempt.

Together, they made their way round the front, to where Darren O'Casey's old nightclub still stood. A dark neon sign hanging above the entrance informed the world that it was "The Ruby Bar". The door was open, and inside they found cleaning staff leaning on mops, or sat on high stools that lined the length of the bar. It was all chrome and reflective surfaces inside. They paused on the threshold, overlooking the dance floor, where an empty DJ box was set against the far wall. Lucas noted that the floor was still sticky with spilled drinks from God knows when. Obviously, no one was checking the staff too closely.

Ros arranged her face into a smile as she addressed the nearest member of staff.

"Hi, I'm Laura and this is my repairman, Danny," she explained. "We've been sent by the company to take a look around, make sure everything's all right before Mr Morris takes over the running of the bar." Beside her, Lucas raised a hand in general greeting and hoisted his toolbox a little higher so they could see it.

The name "Mr Morris" seemed to have a transformative effect on the hitherto lazing workers.

"Oh, right, Frankie's not here at the minute," the man nearest to them said. "But you can go in anyway. We'll be here till opening time. Is there anything you need?"

Ros and Lucas glanced at one another. "We'll be fine, thanks," Lucas replied. "But, can you show us to Morris's office? We need to check a few things before he moves in."

They followed the man towards the back of the club, and through a set of sound-proofed double doors. They came to an iron stairwell with the cellar lower down in the basement, and the first floor above them. They went up, shivering against the draughts of the cellar where the draymen lowered the kegs of ale and beer. On the first floor, there was a snooker room, stating it was for private members only. Lucas nodded towards it, a subtle gesture that they should definitely give that area their attentions.

Finally, they made it to the second floor, where the Office was located well above the noise and vibrations from the nightclub itself.

"That'll be all, thanks," Ros said to their escort after seeing him loitering by the doorway.

They paused, breath held until his footsteps had clattered down the stairwell outside, and turned their attentions to the computer on the desk. It was only on standby, and Lucas was able to wipe the footage from the security cameras with ease, just in case anyone decided to check who was there, and then disabled the system to boot. After a few seconds, they were free to get to work.

"Bug the phone, quick," said Ros, pointing to the phone on the desk, as though Lucas had quite forgotten what one was. "Oh, and make sure you get a listening device in here, and here, and here. We need the whole room covered."

Lucas wasted no time, and everything he needed had been packed into his toolkit by Malcolm.

"Surveillance cameras?" he asked. "Behind the light bulbs?"

Ros looked up at the overhead strip lights and nodded, even though the glare would be bad. "Another in the window frame," she said, pointing them out. "And give me your hammer."

Lucas look up, eyebrow raised.

"To make it sound like we're actually doing something in here!"

He handed it over, wincing as Ros added to their authenticity with the tools. They completed their work as quickly as they could, covering their backs with talk of colour schemes and fabrics, just on the off-chance that someone was listening. They did the same to the private members club on the first floor. Phones tapped, secret, microscopically small surveillance cameras fitted to various fixtures about the rooms. One behind the optics display gave a particularly good view of the room.

However, Lucas' phone rang just as Ros was busy fitting a listening device to another phone in the snooker room.

"Lucas North," he answered brusquely, and snapping the toolbox shut.

Ruth sounded breathless on the other end. "Lucas, we have an incident," he wheezed. "Clara Walsh has made a run for it from her safe house and we've lost her. I can't get hold of Jo anywhere, and Harry's in with the Home Secretary-"

"Wait! Wait!" he cut over her, suddenly in a froth. "Slow down, Ruth. Is there any indication of where Clara's got to?"

A pause, and then: "Well, there was a note. She's gone to the Police because she thinks MI5 set up this guy they arrested this afternoon."

Lucas's heart sank to his boots. "Shit!" he cursed. They hadn't even been made aware of any arrests, something that struck him his highly dubious. "Ruth, we're on our way now."

Ros had overheard him from where she was still putting the finishing touches to her phone tap. When she stepped back into the room, however, her expression was resigned. "Shit hit the fan?" she asked, sounding as though she didn't really want the answer. Lucas flashed her a smile, hoping it might take some of the sting out of the tail.

"We have to get back to the Grid, now."

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time Clara reached Scotland Yard. She was sweating, breathless and exhausted. It had taken two cab rides, a tube journey and a bus to get her safely to the Station. She approached the reception desk and pulled the slip of paper from the back pocket of her jeans.

"I need to speak to someone about the murder of Darren O'Casey," she informed the woman on the desk. "I was here the other day, I found the body. Now, I really need to speak to Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer."

The woman on the desk tapped away at a computer hidden from view. But she waited patiently as the woman checked over the information she needed. "Miss Walsh, is it?" she asked.

"That's right," Clara confirmed. "He'll remember me from before. Please, tell him it's urgent."

The Officer on reception nodded towards the plastic seats, and Clara disappeared into the crowds who were already waiting. Babies wailed, and mothers struggled with prams and buggies as drunks stumbled through the Formica wilderness of the waiting room. It was to her relief, then, that she was called in after just five minutes. She quickly glanced at the hordes of people who'd been waiting far longer than she had, and felt guilty over the angry looks now drawn her way. She shrugged, and walked towards the Chief Superintendent.

"Thanks for seeing me," she said, relief finally stealing over her as he led her to his rather plush office. "It's urgent you see, because I think MI5 have set up that man you arrested. I know it sounds like a right tall story, but I swear it's true."

He took a seat behind a large mahogany desk lined with pictures of his children, smiles frozen in place as they looked out of the glass at him. "Really, Miss Walsh, are you sure you heard right?" asked Tom Mortimer, suddenly rather interested.

Clara nodded. "I swear, when I was taken from here they brought me to a place called Thames House and I had to sign the Official Secrets Act," she explained, words tripping over themselves as she rushed get her story out in one breath. "They asked me all these questions, and today they fitted up some kid from Russia – or something like that. But it's what they do, isn't it? They frame people, so they framed this kid and now they're probably going to frame me!" She was growing desperate. The only thing that kept her on the right side of reason was that the Chief Superintendent hadn't dismissed her out of hand.

Chief Superintendent Mortimer leaned across the desk and smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Miss Walsh. You're safe with me," he said, getting to his feet. "But give me five minutes while I just make a quick phone call."

Clara noted the phone on the Chief Superintendent's desk, but he did not use it. He left the room altogether, and she watched him leave with a deep frown furrowing her dark brow. She was doing the numbers in her head again, and things were failing to add up.

* * *

The Chief Superintendent lifted the receiver and dialled the numbers in quick succession. As soon as the call was answered, he asked to be put through to Charlie Weir. He drummed his fingers in agitation as he waited to be answered again. He sighed as he thought of having to break this unfortunate news to Frankie Morris, too.

"Tom," Charlie's voice was calm on the other end.

"Charlie, we have a problem," he said. "Our boy is still in custody, and I can still make the charges stick. But, we have MI-fucking-5 sniffing around."

"Oh, shit!" Weir didn't sound quite so calm any more. "How did you find out?"

"Our witness came back of her own free will and spilled the beans. She reckons it was the Spooks who fitted up that cleaning kid of yours."

There was another pause as the information was assessed. "Good, now bloody well keep her there and bring her with you tomorrow. Usual place; tell Frankie."

There was a click on the other end of the line followed by a buzz as the line went dead. Mortimer cradled the phone for a second before replacing it. Things, he decided, were getting complicated and he deserved a pay rise.


	5. Fight or Flight

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favourited and alerted this story: your feedback means a lot to me. As always, the usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this beside my OCs. Thank you again for reading, and please review.

Again, apologies for the lateness of this update; I was admitted to hospital not long after the last update, and am only just back on my feet again. Thank you for bearing with me.

* * *

**Chapter Five: Fight or Flight  
**

The door closed behind the Chief Superintendent with just a soft click, that made Clara stiffen with apprehension all the same. Folding her hands in her lap, she fixed her attention on the large watercolour hanging above the desk, until her view was blocked by the returning bulk of Tom Mortimer. Her gaze flitted to the windows, even though the blinds had been drawn, and she could feel his gaze boring into her, as though strip searching her with the power of his imagination alone. However, she held her own and turned to face him, rather than shying away like a frightened child.

"I don't know who that kid is, but they fit him up," she informed the Chief Superintendent. Now I think you're in on it, too; she added silently to herself. She could not imagine any other reason for his breaking off their interview to make phone calls in other places, when one sits abandoned on the desk. "I don't want to be blamed either, but I can't let this poor kid go down for it. I'll go to Amnesty International; I'll write to a Human Rights lawyer, I'll … I'll…"

Mortimer help up a hand to silence her. "You've done the right thing," he said, soothingly. "No need for human rights lawyers; no need for Amnesty. I have a much better suggestion."

"Oh, yeah?" she raised a brow and tilted up her chin, a small act of defiance.

Mortimer leaned across the desk, closer to her. "First of all, you need to tell me the names – or rather code names – of the Agents you dealt with, and tell me everything that happened at Thames House. Then, we will need to gather fresh evidence from the murder scene itself, so I propose that you and I go there together and take another look around. See if anything jogs your memory – anything you remember could be a lifeline for the lad we have in custody."

The second suggestion jarred with her. On the surface, it was helpful. But Clara's seen enough episodes of The Bill to know that witnesses are never taken to 'gather evidence', and certainly never alone. "Just you and me?" she asked.

He laughed a forced laugh. "It's not a date, I promise."

He was doing the same thing as MI5: trying to get her on her own; isolating her. Her suspicions deepened even more. "Then you won't mind if a woman PC comes with us? Or any woman. I never get in cars with men I don't know. No matter who they are."

It was there for just a nanosecond, but long enough for Clara to catch it. A flicker of anger darkening the Chief Superintendent's face. He was forcing himself to remain avuncular, though. Another forced laugh, and a smile that did not reach his eyes. "There's no need for that, I'm a Police Man," he reminded her, almost fatherly.

Her suspicions confirmed, Clara forced herself to remain calm and smile her best simple-girl smile. "Yeah, sorry, I'm just so out of sorts because of all this horrible business!" she explained breezily. "I meant no disrespect."

"Perfectly understandable," he replied, his mask firmly back in place and sagging with relief. "Now, tell me about Thames House. Start by giving me some names."

Clara racked her brains for information, but she had genuinely forgotten whom she had spoken to. All she could remember was that it was a man; tall, dark with piercing blue eyes. A younger woman: very short, boyishly cut, blond hair. She remembered the softly lit interview room, the other room with its softly humming monitors and languid lighting. It was a nebulous haze in her sleep deprived memory. She wrung her hands in her lap, kneaded at her eyes and looked imploringly across the desk.

"I'm really not feeling well," she told him, "I think it's my time of the month and my stomach's bad-" she paused, letting the meaning sink in and watching him fluster at the mention of 'women's problems'. "I need to use the ladies," she prompted further.

He looked at her for a moment. "Of course, down the corridor, and second on your left."

She forced a smile as she got up. "Back in two minutes she replied, tremulously.

Once she was out of the door, she picked up her pace and followed the signs for the exit. Still on the ground floor, it was easy enough to retrace her steps back to the Reception area that was still just as crowded with the same people as when she arrived. She dodged the drunks and pushchairs, stepped over the restless toddlers and lunged for the automatic doors – her final barrier to the freedom of the street.

* * *

No one had bothered to clean up the alleyway Lucas has parked in while he and Ros were inside the club. Not that he expected it, but it would have helped their hasty getaway if they had. He swore under his breath as he reversed the van into the skeletal remains of a bedframe, hearing the crunch as metal impacted against metal. But trusting that no real damage was done, he pushed the van back out of reverse, and pressed down as hard as he dared on the accelerator, deftly dodging the rest of the detritus and a scrawny cat that lingered in a the dingy back street.

Beside him, in the passenger seat, Ros was a picture of white, compressed-lipped, fury. Her narrowed eyes were glaring fixedly beyond the windscreen at the open road in front of them, cursing fluidly at the other drivers. Then, she changed the course of her ire: "The stupid, hare-brained little bitch!" she spat the words at him, but he dared not interject. "Just what kind of conspiracy nut would do such a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing? I mean, good God, you try to help these people, and this is how they repay you!"

It did sound to Lucas as though their seemingly ordinary witness had had a headful of Ancient Illuminati Aliens and Icke-like lizard shape shifters. However, he was also still focused on the task. "Get on the phone to Malcolm and ask him to search the CCTV channels for any sign of her," he suggested, hoping it didn't sound like an order. "Tell Harry we're on our way to New Scotland Yard, we'll be there in five minutes; Clara can't have gone far."

Ros, to his relief, didn't quibble and reached straight away for her phone. While she briefed the team back on the Grid, he put his foot down. The traffic was easing off after the lunchtime rush, mercifully, they made it in good time. He didn't look at where he was parking the van, it's not as if it were a traceable vehicle and the Wardens be damned. They were out and moving towards the Station, Lucas marveling at the speed Ros made even on those treacherous heels, while the cumbersome workman's boots seemed to be slowing him down disproportionately.

"Lucas, you know what she looks like so search the streets. I'll try inside; I'll call you if I find her."

Seeing the sense in the plan, Lucas nodded his agreement. But while Ros disappeared into the building, Lucas froze for a moment. From there, she could have gone anywhere. He phoned back to the Grid, to see if Malcolm had picked up her movements on CCTV, but it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But, it was worth a try.

"Any sign, Malcolm?" he asked, as soon as the other man's reassuringly calm voice sounded on the other end of the line.

There was a brief pause. "We checked the Police station's CCTV already," he answered, "seeing as we already knew that was where she was going. She's been, and left five minutes ago. She headed towards Caxton Street, presumably keeping away from Victoria Street. So head that way now."

Lucas did as Malcolm suggested, almost sending up a silent prayer of thanks that he'd had the foresight to jump ahead and check the CCTV of Clara's destination. He kept up a running commentary until Lucas reached Caxton Street, but from there the trail ran cold.

"There's a busy shopping precinct that way, Lucas. Try there. Try the cafes and public places. Ruth says she will be biding her time and avoiding anywhere that's either too isolated, or too crowded."

Lucas ended the call and placed his trust in the wisdom of Ruth Evershed. But all around him was a sea of faces, passing by him without the faintest trace of recognition. He picked up his pace again, breaking into a jog and ignoring the ache the boots were causing him as he pounded down the pavements of Caxton Street. He didn't stop looking, scrutinising every passing dark haired, young woman. All the while, his mental clock was ticking, each passing second his quarry was getting further and further away. Then, his phone rings again.

"Lucas North," he pants breathlessly into it.

"Lucas, it's Malcolm. Check inside the Caxton Café now: we picked her up on their CCTV."

Lucas doubled over, clutching the stitch in his side and breathed a sigh of relief as he thumbed the 'end call' button. He allowed himself just a minute to catch his breath, and turned back the way he came. The café was at least two hundred yards back towards the main street, but the positive ID was enough to quell his hesitation. As he ran back, he got on the phone to Ros, detailing his location. However, he wasted no time; he wasn't about to let Clara slip through his fingers again.

She was at the back of the café, speaking in a hushed tone into the public pay phone; a finger jammed in her ear to drown out the noise of the diners and the stereo system. Lucas edged his way in, thankful he was still dressed utterly inconspicuously and came to a rest directly behind her. It was a second before she realised he was there, standing directly over her shoulder. Even when she turned slowly to face him, the recognition was slow in coming.

"Tell your mother you'll call her back," he instructed her, making it clear from his tone that this wasn't a request.

Her eyes widened in alarm. Falteringly, she replaced the receiver. She tried to inch away, but her back was already to the wall as it was. "You," she said, in a low hiss. "Leave me alone, or I'll scream."

Lucas shook his head. "No," he replied. "You won't do that. You'll sit down with me and we'll talk, because you have got this just so wrong!"

She said nothing. She just looked back at him with eyes wide and fearful, her dark gaze flickering over his shoulder as though one of the other patrons were about to ride in to her rescue. But the life of the café ticked ever onwards, as though the presence of the Spook had rendered Clara invisible all but Lucas himself.

* * *

Frankie laid the gun down on Charlie's desk, looking at it almost longingly. "You're right," he conceded, laying his hands out flat. "We need the bastard alive, for now."

On the opposite side of the desk, Charlie sipped his tea, seemingly still unfazed. "Only until we get the kid charged with O'Casey's murder," he replied. "But Mortimer is valuable. His demands are getting … unreasonable. I quite agree-"

"And he's got MI-fucking-5 sniffing around our patch!" retorted Frankie, almost choking. "Now he's lost the girl for a second time. He's a liability."

Charlie stretched leisurely, emphasising his lack of concern once more. His new second in command had a point – that couldn't be denied. But having someone on the inside willing to work with them was of inestimable value. If they lost Mortimer now, they could lose their protection, and he was not a man to act precipitously. He had to play for time otherwise, he sensed, he would lose Frankie's faith to keep Mortimer's. That would mean their two units would once again be at war with each other. He drained his tea cup, and reached inside the drawer of his desk. From within, he produced the plastic explosives that were found at O'Casey's flat and placed it next to Frankie's gun. Then, he produced a bag containing detonators.

Frankie's eyes widened. "Where'd you find those?"

"I have my contacts," Charlie answered cryptically, a smile teasing the corners of his lips. "Now, about our wayward Bobby. You want him dead, I accept that, and believe me, I completely understand. But, he means too much to us. We need him. Instead, I think we send him a little message, instead." His eyes fall to the explosives and gun. "A message he won't forget in a hurry."

Frankie smiled, finally giving a sign that he was mollified. "The Met will be too closely covered, so where do you propose putting this bomb?" It was only a minor detail, because all that mattered was that they finally had the means with which they could finally stamp their authority on this city.

"There's a little café just off Dacre Street all the Bobbies go to," answered Charlie. "Don't worry, they'll get the message from there."

They certainly would. Both men lapsed into a natural silence, broken only by the ticking of the great Grandfather Clock sitting in the corner of Weir's office. A strangely soothing, steady noise that took some of the tension from the atmosphere between them. The merging of their 'units' had not gone as smoothly as they had hoped, and more trouble was on the horizon. But now, it seemed, all obstacles could simply be blasted out of their path.

Frankie resolved to get back to his new businesses while the preparations for their next hit were being made. The Emerald was due to re-open with him as the new owner, and he had a Boxing Club to run. All convenient alibis for a bombing. He rose to his feet and shook Charlie's hand, signifying that their meeting was now at an end. "I'll make a few enquiries," he told him, "see if we can't get any more guns, ammo and explosives. Looks like we'll be needing it."

With that, matters were concluded. He was keeping his end of the bargain, and now it remained for Charlie to clear the Met and MI5 mess up.

* * *

Ros and Lucas strode back on to the Grid with Clara trailing reluctantly behind them. All around them, work continued uninterrupted. The monitors still purred as the Officers cracked codes, deciphered thinly veiled threats that poured in from all over the country and Harry still paced his office on a contiual cycle of private frustration. Lucas nodded to him through the window as he passed, whereas Ros had her spy blinkers on, and kept her eye fixed on the interview room to the rear of the Grid.

The door to the interview room slid shut, sealing them in and shutting out the noise of the main office simultaneously. Inside, there was just one table with four chairs. Nothing on the pastel shaded walls, nothing to encourage the mind to wander; nothing to distract from whatever was being talked about.

"Explain yourself," Ros stated bluntly, slapping a stack of papers down on the desk in front of Clara as she got seated.

The noise made her jump out of her skin, but Lucas could see that it was only a stack of swatches from when they were undercover as interior decorators at the Emerald Bar. He glanced up at Ros who had taken to pacing the circumference of the room. Then she stopped, crossed to the table and leaned across it, fixing Clara with a steely eye. It was enough to make the girl tremble visibly. Lucas wished he could swap Ros over with Jo, but he knew it was much too far gone for that, now. Ros' blood was up, and she would not be moved now.

"Well!" she snapped when Clara did not answer her immediately.

Clara's gaze darted between Lucas and Ros, as though decided which of them was the least terrifying prospect. "It was that man they arrested," she said, tremulous and wavering. "He had nothing to do with O'Casey's murder, and I thought it was you lot who set him up. I just panicked, and went to the Police. I spoke to Chief Superintendent Mortimer because he's the one in charge of the case, and I told him you were setting someone up. Then he acted all suspicious-"

"Wait!" Ros cut across her. "You told the Chief Superintendent that MI5 had set up an innocent man?"

There was a pause during which Clara turned deathly white and tears sat sparkling in her eyes. Sensing the depth of trouble she was in, all she could manage in reply was a jerky nod of her head. Ros' expression was unreadable. She straightened up and walked out of the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Lucas watched, puzzled, the spot where she had vanished, wondering where she had got to. Seconds later, and a scream of pure frustration could be faintly heard coming from somewhere far off down the corridor. A third, unseen person (but sounding suspiciously like Harry) sniggered loudly in response.

Lucas glanced apologetically across the table at Clara. "Her bark's worse…" then he stopped himself. "Look, you've got it all wrong about us. We're not fixing anything, and we've never heard of this patsy they've got locked up. But I promise, our top analyst will be looking into this."

He was trying to soothe the girl, trying to see things from her perspective. He could only imagine how intimidating it could be for an unsuspecting member of the public to suddenly find themselves at the center of a murder case involving the mafia, the Police and MI5. Ros soon re-entered the room, looking completely calm and serene. She even managed a smile. The venting must have worked.

"Tell us everything," said Ros, her tone even again.

Clara took a moment to compose herself with deep, cleansing breaths and dried the tears that had fallen from her eyes. Then, she told them everything from the moment she had heard of Alexei Amalyev's arrest, right up until Lucas had intercepted her at the café off Caxton Street. She even produced the slip of paper she had jotted down Mortimer's name on, making sure she had it right and then showed it to Ros, as though it were evidence.

The silence that followed seemed to draw on interminably. At length, Lucas and Ros pushed back their chairs and left the room together. Each unsure of what to make of what they'd heard. Ros made sure the door to the interview room was properly shut – as much to keep Clara in as to keep their voices out.

"What do you make of that, then?" asked Ros.

Lucas shrugged. "Not sure. But get it all checked out. Something's not right here."

"What about the scapegoat?"

"Better speak to Harry."

Ros let her head fall back against the door. "This day is never going to end, is it?"

Lucas smiled in an attempt to bring a last minute ray of sunshine into Ros' day. Under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.


	6. The Longest Day

**Authors Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot to me. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thanks again, and reviews would be appreciated!

* * *

**Chapter Six: The Longest Day**

Harry Pearce glanced at his watch: eight in the morning and, no doubt, he was the first to arrive on the Grid. Up early to avoid the morning rush hour, he entered Thames House and initially ignored the hurried clip of high heel shoes that fell into step behind him. At least until he held open a door, an act of chivalry some may consider old fashioned, and turned to find Ruth hastily catching him up. He should have known she would have caught the early bus. A smile of recognition, possibly even affection, lit up her face when she saw him and he tried to match it as she ducked under his arm, stepped through the door and onto the Grid.

As they exchanged the usual morning pleasantries, he scanned the room, calculating that they had roughly fifteen precious minutes alone together before the others began to trickle in. However, caught in the moment, he seemed to find himself tongue-tied. For a long moment, the two simply stood and looked at each other, as though each waited for the other to speak first. Harry pulled himself together:

"So, another day at the fun factory begins in earnest?" he finally quipped, flashing her a grin.

Her expression clouded, causing his early morning optimism to flag.

"Curb your enthusiasm, today will involve the Home Secretary."

Absorbing that gem of information, he led the way onto the Grid to fix some tea before the others arrived. It had become their wont to share a pot in his office as they briefly went over the day's business together – a habit he was keen to encourage. Still, it was almost otherworldly to see the Grid so devoid of life; to see the computers blank and silent, the phones failing to ring and the buzz of chatter all on suspension. It was as if they were the last two people alive on earth.

He rolled his eyes at the mention of the Home Secretary, however. "Am I going to have to abase myself before him?" he asked, unsure of whether he really wanted the answer to that. "If so, I want a shot of brandy in that tea!"

Ruth hesitated, distracted herself with safely transporting their teacups to Harry's office as he hung up their overcoats. "It's not that bad, Harry," she gently chided him as she took her seat. "But it is going to be worth it. You see that man they set up for the murder of Darren O'Casey?"

"I forget his name, but I know who you mean. Anything interesting on him?"

Ruth leaned towards him, elbows braced on the surface of the highly polished desk. "As it happens, yes," she answered. "His name's Alexei Amalyev; only nineteen and from the Ukraine. He moved here only a year ago. There's nothing at all suspicious about him, but Clara was right. He's definitely been set up. He was working for Charles Weir, the man who Francis Morris has recently joined forces with to run South and East London together. Amalyev was just a run of the mill cleaner for Weir, but he has no family in the UK. Easy to see why they chose him to take the rap for the murder. No one cares about kids like him: asylum seekers, rootless wanderers. But, it also means that there is someone inside the Police force facilitating all this."

She paused, letting Harry digest the information. He did so while sipping at his morning tea, frowning deeply as he mulled it all over. "That's quite a serious allegation to make, Ruth," he finally remarked, a frown dulling the glitter in his wide green eyes.

"I know that, Harry," she retorted. "But think about it: O'Casey is murdered, and they've apprehended the world's unlikeliest culprit within a matter of twenty-four hours. He's someone completely unlike Clara Walsh's description of the man she saw, and he was in the employment of one of the gang leaders involved in the wider game. They simply could not have gotten a result so quick, not unless someone was helping them from the inside."

Then, a memory stirred at the back of Harry's memory. "There's something else," he said, biting his lower lip. "Remember when we initially brought Miss Walsh in, there was some trouble getting her out of the Police Station. The Chief Superintendent seemed very reluctant to let her go – I remember Jo complaining bitterly about it at the time because it made her late for one of her dead drops. It was a few days ago, when we weren't treating the case as priority, and that's why it annoyed her."

The remembrance flared in Ruth's expression. "Yes!" she exclaimed, almost knocking her half-full cup over as her hand flew to her face. "I'll find out who the Chief Superintendent was and get on to him right away. You get on to the Home Sec, and see if he can't facilitate Amalyev's release."

Without waiting for any further instruction, Ruth was on her feet and Harry knew better than to try to distract her from her course of action now. However, when she reached door, just as she was about to launch herself over to her desk, he called her name and brought her to a sudden halt. She looked over her shoulder at him, expectantly. "What are you doing for lunch?" he asked her, already picturing the table for two in his mind's eye.

* * *

Lucas always marvelled at the range of emotions Ros could convey with just her lip. There was the sneer, seen on a daily basis and the most widely used of her expressions. Then there was the cynical lip curl, reserved for dealings with politicians. There was the lop-sided leer, used for dealing with slippery assets or terrorist leaders. However, none of those had ever shone upon Lucas North before; not, that is, until that morning as they sat in the front of her car sharing a breakfast. She sat behind the wheel, healthy banana in hand as he, sat in the passenger seat, bit into a fat chocolate croissant. Her lip curled at the corner, unmitigated horror frozen in her eyes.

"How can you eat that crap for breakfast?" she asked, fixing on the pastry clutched in his hand, still half wrapped in its paper bag.

He gulped down his mouthful, suppressing a grin. "I'd take your lofty disdain more seriously if you weren't brandishing your banana at me like that," he answered with a nod at her fruit.

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly and pointedly turned to look out at the early morning traffic, already building up through the main roads of the city. The day was promising to be fine, with open blue skies and nary a cloud to mar the sunshine. The city looked cheerful, almost clean in the dazzling light. However, work was creeping up on them as the clock ticked steadily towards nine am.

"Has Jo got our witness on a leash?" asked Ros, finally breaking the natural silence that had settled between them.

"You mean: has Jo got our witness safely ensconced in a safe house," he corrected her. "Yes, she has. And, she's agreed to remain there with her and keep an eye on things. We can't afford to have Clara go wandering off on us again."

Ros rolled her eyes. "That'll do for starters, I guess."

They checked their watches simultaneously, and cursed the lateness of the hour together, too. Ros deposited the banana skin on the dashboard, and revved the engine into life as Lucas finished his croissant. The traffic was steadily building by the time they were making it across the city towards Thames House. But, by divine intervention – or something like it – they made it in good time. As was often the case, they had barely set foot on the Grid before Harry was calling them over for a quick briefing.

"Ruth's unearth something potentially interesting; very interesting," said Harry as he led them both into the meeting room. "Lucas, I want you to investigate it, and Ros, I want you to investigate a businessman called Charles Weir in South London."

Ros and Lucas exchanged a glance; each registered a flicker of disappointment at being separated for the next phase of their investigation. But neither vocalised any complaint. Instead, they took their seats and fixed Harry with a keen look, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I've been on to the Home Secretary to see if we can get the suspect in the O'Casey murder released," explained Harry, "he said he's willing to turn a blind eye to us getting him out, but he cannot officially authorise a release in case it turns out he actually did commit the murder. However, that's not all. Lucas, I need you to keep a very close eye on the Chief Superintendent who arrested the boy, Alexei Amalyev, in the first place."

"Sure, but how?" asked Lucas. "Who is he?"

"Ruth's working on that, but you're going to be a new Chief Superintendent yourself, drafted in from the Midlands and shadowing him until you find your feet with the Met. His name is Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer."

It was all straightforward enough. "Fine. Malcolm can rig me up, and I can bug his office while I'm there. Should tell us all we need to know," he replied. "Am I releasing the Suspect on the sly while I'm at it? He'll still be in the holding cells at the station until he's formally charged."

"Yes, do it," Harry confirmed. Then, he turned to Ros: "I'm sending you to a bar owned by Charles Weir. We've arranged for his manageress to be forced into taking a few days off, and you're being sent by the agency to fill in for her, as of tonight. I want his offices bugged and, if you can, try to have a look around for anything incriminating. I want this case wrapped up as quick as can be; most especially now that we're spying on another branch of the security forces. It's always unpalatable."

Their orders issued, neither of them wasted time in carrying them out. Malcolm and Ruth had their new identities waiting for them already. However, they spent the rest of the morning checking over the footage of the Emerald Bar, which they had bugged only the day before. It was still mostly empty, and the owner, Frankie Morris, never seemed to stay in the office long. Malcolm, however, was not discouraged, imploring Ros and Lucas to patience in the matter. However, lunchtime came around, bringing with it no further advancement of their cause. It was enough to make Lucas almost lose the will to live as he and Ros prepared to go their separate ways.

* * *

Charlie Weir replaced the telephone and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Bloody Sam's phoned in," he told Frankie. "Her mother's had a fall, and she's had to head back to Warwick for a few days."

"Just can't get the staff these days," replied Frankie, clicking his tongue.

Charlie looked at him for a second. "Never mind that, the Agency's managed to get a replacement already. Better be bloody good; this place will fall apart without Sam. So then, your boys have been busy then?"

Frankie smiled and, carefully, he placed an ordinary looking suitcase on the desk between them. He put in a combination number, lifted the lid open and turned it around so Charlie could see what was contained inside. The plastic explosives they had had been wired, primed and was ready to go. Charlie blenched at having a sizeable bomb placed on his desk, even though he knew it was quite safe. It would be triggered only when Frankie himself sent a code from his mobile phone. By that time, it would be safely planted inside the Police station. He forced himself to smile.

"You got someone to plant it?"

Obviously, neither of them could go wandering into Scotland Yard with a bomb and run the risk of being caught. They were respectable businessmen.

"Oh yes," replied Frankie. "They think it's just a bribe for our friend. He'll text me when it's planted, and the it's up to us when we detonate."

Charlie was thoughtful for a minute. He needed to decide whether he wanted Chief Superintendent Mortimer in or out of the Station at the moment of detonation. He decided on a merciful approach. For now, the Police would be getting a warning. However, if his patience were tested, he would revise that.

"I want a warning phoned in at three o'clock this afternoon, and I want that detonated by three fifteen. Not a moment later. Fifteen minutes should be ample warning for all inside."

Frankie checked his watch. It was already midday, and he would have get his man to act fast if he wanted everything in place by three. He nodded his agreement and closed the lid on the suitcase. The deal was done, and there was no going back for them now.

* * *

Clara nursed her fourth cup of coffee of the day and stared into its depths as though it may reveal the secrets of the universe at any moment. It didn't. Her eyes were red and puffy from lack of sleep, her skin sallow and waxen. However, she took care to keep her hair neat and tidy, just so she wasn't letting herself go altogether. Her dog, Sparky, had been returned to her and now sat, full of hope, before the front door. She looked at him dejectedly; he had no chance, or so she thought.

"Shall we take him out?" asked Jo, sitting in a large, moth eaten armchair by the empty hearth of their new safe house.

Clara frowned. "I thought we weren't allowed out?"

Jo laughed, but good-naturedly. "It's not generally recommended," she admitted. "But you're with me, and a few laps around the block won't hurt. Maybe even the park down the road."

It was only something small but, to Clara, it was something – a small ray of normality – that could potentially keep her just about on the right side of sanity. Because this waiting game, she found, was worse than anything. All the time she worried about the damage she had done by fleeing her minders, and she feared for the boy taken into custody, and she worried endlessly about who was controlling who in this, the most dizzying of murder cases. If only she had decided to take Sparky on a different walk that night, then she would not be in this predicament. But the "what if" games were as pointless and destructive as the waiting game. Instead, she seized upon the small mercy that Jo – or, Vicky Holt as Clara knew her – and go on the dog walk.

As soon as she stepped outside, Clara breathed in deep lungful of air, savouring every polluted particle of it. "That's so much better!" she exclaimed as she, Jo and the spaniel all set off down the street towards the small park.

The weather had upheld its promise of fine, warm sunshine and the going was good for the rest of the day, too. They stopped at a coffee shop to get some coffee to take on their walk, and prepared themselves for a pleasant break from the monotony of life on the run. However, even out there Clara found that her situation still followed her. She had no notion of who Alexei Amalyev was; all she knew was that he was in prison somewhere for a crime she knows he didn't commit.

She stopped abruptly in the path and turned to Jo. "Your colleagues will be able to help, won't they?" she asked.

Jo knew already what she was talking about. "I think so," was the best she could answer, and she had an inkling it wasn't quite what Clara wanted to hear.

Clara let the silence fall and carried on walking again. She tried to distract herself by watching the dog sniff at the plentiful undergrowth of the neglected parkland. But it did not work for long.

"Look, why don't we – I mean you and I, not me on my own - just go down to the Station to try and talk to someone else about what's been happening?" she asked at length.

Jo sighed. "That's really not a good idea, Clara-"

"But I can't just sit around doing nothing, Vicky!" Clara protested, vehemently. "It's worse than useless."

She could see that Jo felt awful about the situation. Her hands were tied, and Clara even felt guilty for going on about it. But, she had to try. "I don't see what harm it can do," she insisted. "It might even help. Surely you know someone down the station who can help us?

Jo shrugged. "No," she answered truthfully. "Clara, if you really insist; if it will help set your mind at ease, then I'll drive you down the station. But, the first sign of trouble and we're out of there. And, not a word of this to anyone, understand?"

Relief washed over Clara like a great tide. "You mean it?" she asked, wanting to make sure she had not misheard. "We can go today?"

Jo was scowling, though. Clearly, the decision was against her better judgement. "If we get caught, then I only brought you because you bolted again," she explained, spelling out her terms. "I am not risking my job for this."

Clara nodded vigorously. "You're the boss!"

By her reckoning, it was gone midday now. If they hurried the walk and got themselves freshened up, they could be at the Station and dealing with a fresh new Police Officer by three o'clock. They continued their afternoon walk in the park with a new spring in their step.

* * *

Lucas made doubly sure to order something satisfactorily healthy for lunch before he and Ros parted ways for the day. To his chagrin, however, she barely noticed. Gone was her chocolate croissant sneer as she fussed over her new, bar manageress identity. As always, however, they ate in her car. Some things would not change, and they spent their lunch hour looking out at the park from behind their windscreen.

However, the moment of departure arrived all too swiftly. The Station was only a few hundred yards away, and Lucas could easily walk it from there, so their parting was destined to be as sudden as it was swift.

"It's gone one o'clock," he said, finishing the rest of his sandwich and packing up the wrappers. "I better get a move on; Mortimer will be expecting me by now."

Ros went to reply, and he braced himself for the usual snarky riposte. But it did not come. There was a moments hesitation in which their eyes met, and each seemed to fumble for something to say. The colour stole into Lucas' cheeks, something that had not happened since he was an awkward teen, and it had him reeling now.

"Did you hear?" he asked, "Ruth and Harry dining together this afternoon."

Her silence was stony, her expression not even wavering. He felt himself blush deeper and decided to change the subject.

"You take care, Ros," he said, suddenly acutely aware of how dangerous her mission was. He was only infiltrating a Police Station, whereas Ros was infiltrating a gangland boss's heartland.

Her expressive lips twitched into a genuine smile. "You too," she simply replied.

The moment passed, and Lucas hurried out of the car without further ado. He had a feeling they were both in for an exceptionally long day.


	7. Suspect Device

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own none of this. Thank you again for reading, and reviews would be most welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Suspect Device**

Lucas made the introduction as smooth as possible, despite his racing heart. Displaying his forged Police badge in one hand, he extended the other to Thomas Mortimer. "Chief Superintendent Liam Collins," he said, giving his alias smoothly and arranging his face into an expression of impeccable neutral benignity.

Chief Superintendent Mortimer regarded him coolly from over the rim of his reading glasses. It was that moment of scrutiny that always had Lucas flinching inside. He always felt like he was being X-rayed, like the other person could see beneath his skin and read the thoughts in his head. The other man was older than he by at least a decade, but he was burly and strong. His expression maddeningly unreadable as he returned Lucas' handshake. "Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer," he introduced himself in return. "Please, take a seat. Just in from the Midlands for a few days, is that right?"

Lucas, as always, had the cover story straight in his head. "From the Birmingham force," he explained, careful to give particulars. "After such a smooth resolution of a double murder, we thought, perhaps, there were some lessons we could learn for our own investigations."

"You mean the Hicks and O'Casey murders," Mortimer replied. "Well, we were certainly aided by the guilty party's confession. But, by all means, take a look into it. See for yourself."

Mortimer got to his feet and began rummaging through a filing cabinet set against the back wall. Making the most of the temporary distraction, Lucas used the time to properly inventory the Office he now found himself in. It was large enough, with a gaudy watercolour hanging on the back wall behind the desk. An old, boxy computer sat on the desk, humming away to itself. The windows were flung open to tempt in the early summer breeze, but to little avail. The room still smelled of dust and decaying timber. There was one way in and one way out, and Lucas was glad that there was nothing barring his path to that one door.

After a minute, Mortimer was back with a bulky file held in both hands and he let it drop to the desk in front of Lucas. "There you go."

"Is this the complete file you've just given me?" asked Lucas, turning from the file back to the Chief Superintendent, hoping that his words were picked up by the mic hidden in his lapel.

"That's it," replied Mortimer, eyebrow raised as though he suspected a trick question.

After a moment's hesitation Lucas pulled the file towards him and started to skim over the first pages, all protected behind plastic covers. However, he took little of it in as he glanced it over, until a knock came at the door and he released the breath he didn't realise he had been holding. He glanced over his shoulder as a young Woman Police Officer poked her head around the door. "Urgent message for you, Sir," she said to Mortimer, "at Reception."

Mortimer shot Lucas an apologetic glance as he rose to his feet. "Excuse me for a moment," he said, before leaving with the Officer.

The door was barely closed before Malcolm's disembodied voice sounded in Lucas' ear. "Come in, Alpha One?"

"I hear you," Lucas replied softly, still listening to the sound of Mortimer's footsteps receding down the corridor outside the office.

"That's the decoy. Ruth will keep Mortimer talking for as long as possible," said Malcolm, his voice distant over comms. "But you still need to act fast. Get on to Mortimer's computer now and accept my request for remote access."

Lucas wasted no time in darting round to the opposite side of the desk, where Mortimer had left his computer on, still whirring happily away to itself. The shooting star screensaver had activated and as Lucas hit a random key to get rid of it, the tower began to grind. The machine was ancient, powered by Hamster, he thought glumly to himself. However, Malcolm's request for remote access had already popped up.

"You're on, Malcolm," said Lucas as he granted the necessary permissions.

Lucas sat back and let Malcolm work his magic; a flurry of activity happening from the Grid that was over in seconds. Meanwhile, he listened out for the sound of approaching footsteps, even though he knew Ruth would keep Mortimer occupied for as long as she could, and he would get fair warning of his impending return from the Grid end. If Mortimer walked in on this, Lucas knew he'd have some tough explaining to do.

"Lucas, print off Amalyev's release forms now," said Malcolm. "He's still in the holding cells at the Station, but will be transferred to the Scrubs at seven this evening. You have until then to get him out and here, to the Grid."

Lucas clicked the print button immediately, before Malcolm had finished explaining the time frame. He checked his watch as soon the ancient printer clanked and ground into life, a noise so loud it jangled his nerves. It was almost three pm. Bags of time, he grinned to himself. He snatched up the papers as soon as the printer spat them out, almost spilling them onto the floor before Lucas caught them in time.

"We're done, Malcolm," he said, once the printer fell back into its dormant silence. "I'm going out there now to release the prisoner; if Mortimer sees me, I'll make an excuse. Going off-comms."

He just caught Malcolm wishing him luck for the rest of his mission before he took out his earpiece and silenced the mic in his lapel. Once the papers were stamped with Mortimer's own seal, he was out of the door and working his way towards the holding cells. From the floor plans he'd seen back on the Grid, the best way to get to them was through the Reception area, where suspects were initially checked in.

The doors that separated the main station from the public areas were automatic looking, and he had to press a button to open them. Once out there, the noise levels increased five-fold as he entered a Reception area populated by squalling babies, singing drunks and spaced out crack heads slumped in corners as they waited to be 'processed'. Lucas let his gaze drift over them all, until he fell on Chief Superintendent Mortimer, just hanging up the telephone on the Reception desk. He looked in Lucas' direction, making him duck behind a group of vagrants who had just swarmed into the Reception area.

Confident that he hadn't been seen, Lucas skirted the back of the room, once again avoiding the large crowds. He weaved past a mother pacing her restless toddler back and forth, careful to avoid standing on the child, so that he collided with someone else entirely. He muttered his hasty apologies as he turned to face the newcomer, and found himself face to face with Jo and Clara.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" he snapped, not bothering to disguise the anger that had flared up in his chest.

Jo flushed a deep red. "L-" she bit her tongue before she could say his name, and corrected herself staunchly by omitting his name altogether. "We're just checking up on the suspect-"

"I don't care; get her out of here, now!" He hissed, keeping his voice low. "I'm on it now."

Clara had already begun a tactical retreat, but Jo stayed put, her eyes widening like a child's caught with its hands in the sugar bowl. "She wouldn't rest until we had seen that something was being done," she tried to explain. "Otherwise I would never-"

Jo did not get to finish her stammering explanations. Her voice was drowned out by a Senior Police officer's as it resounded over a loud-speaker, making Lucas whirl around as an alarm immediately began to sound, sending the room into chaos. "Please vacate the building, now; emergency procedure, Code Red," the voice over the loudspeaker announced. Seconds later, the women on the Reception desk were out among the crowds, shepherding the public outside. "Everyone out now!" they shrieked over the alarms. "We have a bomb scare; out now!"

"Shit!" Lucas cursed heavily as he turned back to Jo. "Get her well out of here; back to the safe house now!"

Jo grabbed Clara's wrist, holding her steady against the tides of people now streaming towards the exits, but then she stopped. "What about you?" she asked.

Lucas hadn't thought of that, but this was the perfect cover for him. "There's something I need to do," he said, already swimming against the human tide. He left Jo staring, wide-eyed, after him as he was swallowed by the crowds.

* * *

Ros stepped out of the car and looked at the sign above the door of Charlie Weir's pub. It was three o'clock precisely; as always, she prided herself on her punctuality. She straightened her skirts and smoothed down the front of her crisp, clean blouse before confidently pushing open the double doors and stepping inside. It was gloomy indoors, especially after being outside in the bright afternoon sun, but she soon adjusted to the change. She found herself in a large bar room, all marble effect table-tops and bars. Chrome fittings and mirrored walls. Disco balls shone in the dull lights, but failed to sparkle in the silence of the usually bustling pub.

Inwardly, she cringed. 'How bloody tacky can you get?' she thought to herself as she smiled at the barman getting ready for the night's trade.

"Hi, I'm Abigail; the agency sent me to cover for your regular Manageress," she explained, setting her bag down on the bar. "Mister Weir is expecting me."

"Oh yeah, that's right," replied the barman, slinging his bar towel over his left shoulder as he extended his hand towards Ros. She returned the handshake tentatively. "Follow me, and I'll take you up there now."

They made idle chatter as he showed her up the back stairs. Luckily for Ros, he was a lot better at it than her, so she let him do the talking as she simply nodded and agreed at regularly timed intervals. Otherwise, the chatter washed over her as she mentally prepared herself for her introduction for the gangland leader. They reached a large oak door, so highly polished Ros could see her distorted outline in it, and the barman knocked loudly. A voice on the other side was distant, obviously not talking to them.

"Sounds like Charlie's on the phone," he observed, "I'll leave you to it. He'll be out soon."

With that, he descended the stairs, presumably returning to his cleaning duties. Meanwhile, slipped off her shoes to reduce the noise she would make, and trod closer to the door, where she could listen to the conversation happening on the other side. However, Weir's words were barely audible, not to mention one-sided as he was definitely having a phone conversation.

"What do you mean 'a warning'?" Weir asked.

Silence. A silence during which Ros could only speculate as to the nature of the warning.

"Now, Tom, don't get ahead of yourself," he later added. "Have you checked the guy out? If you reckon he's MI5 then check him out before you do anything. Well, actually, no. Keep tabs on him first. Just keep after him. If he's MI5, he could cause all sorts of trouble. The bomb scare's probably a hoax anyway!"

Ros' stomach churned as she began to retreat from the door. Her fear broke the surface of her steely calm with an eviscerating ease as she tried to get back on comms, but her hands were shaking and her mouth had run dry. He was talking about Lucas, there was no one else it could be and she needed to get him out of that Station fast. But it was too late; the call had ended and Weir had appeared at the door before she could even get her shoes back on. He smiled at her from the doorway, completely unruffled and relaxed. With every fibre of her will-power, she pulled herself together.

"Ah, Miss Walters, isn't it?" he asked, glancing down at Ros' bare feet as she slipped back into her shoes.

"And you must be Mister Weir," she replied, "don't mind this; they're knew and killing my ankles." She explained with a laugh, extending her hand. "Sorry to hear about your Manageress."

Weir shook her hand, looking at her carefully. "Yes, it was quite a surprise," he replied. "Still, I am sure whoever sent you here thinks you can do a good job."

Maybe it was the conversation she had just over-heard, but she didn't like his phrasing. "The Agency, Abacus, sent me," she replied, affecting an air of confusion.

His smile widened. "Is that what you're calling yourselves these days," he replied in an undertone. "Well, never mind, you're here now and that's what counts."

She could sense the uncertainty in him; he suspected, but he was undecided. Ros knew she would have to measure her next steps carefully, otherwise her cover would be blown and that could potentially mean the loss of both herself and Lucas. For the moment, he would have to fend for himself, and she stepped into the spacious Office of Charlie Weir.

* * *

By the time Lucas made it to the holding cells, the prisoners were already being handcuffed to Police Officers and evacuated from the building. However, he had to ensure that he was the one who escorted Alexei Amalyev outside, or the operation would end in disaster for them all. The Sergeant in charge of overseeing the evacuation was standing at the far end of the cell, and Lucas showed him his forged Police badge.

"Chief Superintendent Liam Collins," he said. "I have release papers for Alexei Amalyev; I need him out now before I can go anywhere."

The place was emptying fast, and Lucas feared he had already missed his target. The Sergeant, however, simply raised a brow. "You've timed this one well," he snorted. "Release papers?"

Lucas handed them over, tapping his foot impatiently as the other man gave them only the briefest of glances. "Cell B3," he said, already turning away from Lucas to carry on assisting with the evacuation, "down the corridor and turn left."

It was almost ten minutes into the bomb warning, now. The place was almost empty, and as Lucas made it to the last cell, the one with the framed suspect in it, he could already tell they were almost alone. He keyed in a code into the machine at the side of the locked cell, the exact same as it appeared on the release papers, and the automatic lock clicked open. The sight of so many cells brought back memories of Russia that Lucas had to fight to keep at bay, this was no time to get carried away by his own memories.

He pulled the cell door open without bothering to check the Judas hole; finding a thin, dark haired teenager crouched in the corner of the cell, huddled near the foot of the bed. He looked up at Lucas through wide, bloodshot blue eyes that peered through the strands of an unkempt fringe. At the sight of Lucas, he tried to stand and back himself further into the corner of his cell, trembling visibly. But Lucas had no time to set the boy at his ease.

"You speak English?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before he grabbed his wrist and marched him towards the door.

Alexei tried to pull back, but Lucas tightened his grip. He did not answer the question. "C'mon, I'm trying to get you out of here!"

Lucas wrenched the cell door open again, and collided with a fist. Pain exploded through his lower jaw as the force of the blow sent him reeling backwards. He came crashing to the floor of the cell, helplessly bringing Alexei tumbling down with him. A steel toe-capped boot landed in his stomach, knocking the breath out of his lungs and making him heave painfully. Alexei recovered quickly and tried to fight back, but Lucas could easily see he was no match for the other person. He tried to call out for help, but he knew everyone else had already gone. A hand reached out and pulled him up by the hair.

"Game over, James Bond."

Lucas didn't have to twist round to see Mortimer, he recognised his voice. But as he was dropped back down again, he could just see the Chief Superintendent leaving the cell, making sure it was safely locked as he went. A surge of uncontrollable panic swept over Lucas; anger and frustration pulling him to his feet as he kicked out at the door, sending fresh waves of pain coursing through him. But already he knew it was too late; he was locked in a cell with a bomb ticking inexorably towards detonation.

* * *

Nature abhors a vacuum. The rattling windows were the first sign, but no one saw it. It lasted for only a few seconds as the bomb sucked the oxygen out of the atmosphere, creating a vacuum that then tried to suck in everything surrounding it. Then, a nanosecond later, the bomb combusted and the explosion tore suddenly outwards, ripping through the first floor taking everything there with it. The force radiated outwards; blasting the straggling evacuees off their feet and hurling them through the air. The noise of the explosion was deafening, fading rapidly into a mute, deadly silence as it went.

As the silence was finally punctuated by an array of caterwauling alarms, Jo Portman climbed unsteadily back to her feet. Even though she knew about the bomb, the detonation still left her bewildered. Ears ringing, an unwelcomely familiar sensation, she looked all about her for Clara. Clara was beside her, sitting upright with mouth agape at the carnage all around her. For a long moment, the two women just looked at each other as events registered, were processed, and they accepted what had just occurred.

"Your colleague's still in there," said Clara, pulling herself up to her feet, using a nearby car as support until the glass from its shattered windows cut her hand.

"Lucas," whispered Jo, unmindful of using his real name. She turned slowly towards the Station which now had a great, yawning chasm down the side, where the bomb had detonated.

Clara was already hobbling towards the Station when she spoke next. "He was going to get Alexei," she said, still distant and dazed.

Jo reached out to stop her, and raised her voice over the din of the alarms. "No! Wait, we can't…"

Clara pulled herself free of Jo's grip with surprising force, enough to give Jo a jolt back into reality. "We can't just leave them," said Clara, continuing towards the Station with recovering strength.

The dust clouds cleared slowly, revealing bodies spread out around the grounds. However, the distant blaring of sirens indicated to Jo that help was fast on its way. She could leave them to the professionals, and get back inside. The survivors moved like wraiths, covered in dust and muted into silence by their own shock and trauma. Others moaned as they lay on the ground, or sat with their heads in their hands. The two woman clasped each others hands and, ignoring the pleas of a dazed policeman, stepped over a ragged cordon, before breaking into a run for the entrance that had been mercifully left in tact.


	8. Half the Battle Lost

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thank you again for reading and reviews, as always, are most welcome. Apologies for the high level of sweariness in this chapter, too.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Half the Battle Lost**

Lucas must have blacked out. The last thing he could remember was throwing himself bodily at the door of the cell and the blast, as if in response to his frantic cries, resounding through the whole building. It seemed to last forever, rumbling on interminably as it gathered momentum. The overhead strip light shook in its fittings, sending down a shower of hot sparks as he rolled out of its path as it fell, dragging Alexei with him. When he came around, he was under the bed with Alexei cowering beside him. It could only have been minutes since the blast; the air around him was thick with dust because the blast had forced tiles from the walls and destabilised the structure. With the lights blown, the windowless cell was in pitch darkness.

He took a moment to recover himself, gingerly poking at a sore spot near his temple. He couldn't see the blood on his fingertips, but they felt wet and that confirmed his fears of a head injury. This new awareness brought on a throbbing pain in his temples, making him wince as he cautiously groped his way across the cold, tiled floor of the cell.

"Wait here," he said to Alexei as he went, "it'll be all right."

Back out from under the bed, Lucas straightened himself up in slow, easy stages using the wall to steady himself. He couldn't see a thing, so he had to grope his way towards the door of the cell. Luckily, it was only five feet away. He couldn't even lie flat in the width of the room. Reaching the steel door, he groped along its edge feeling for any kind of opening. However, the bomb blast had not loosened the door an inch and they were still trapped.

"Fuck!" he cursed heavily.

Finding himself in another cell, the memories swelled, forming a landslide in his mind. Always the same ghosts resurrected from his depths of his subconscious; only the sequence changed. The ceaseless flow the water, dry drowning as he inhaled it deep into his lungs; next, he's crawling the walls under a bare, flickering electric bulb. He'll never see the open sky again. He tried to pull himself out of it, but it's like swimming against the current of a tidal river. Only the rough hands of another person can shake him out of his paralysis, but the residual memories still lay like a stale crust over his mind as he tried to steady his racing heart.

"They will come for us."

Lucas had almost forgotten about Alexei. His words were laboured; broken, heavily accented English and he was still holding Lucas down. The rescued had become the rescuer. However, he had said those words himself before, and they hadn't come for him then, either.

* * *

For a long moment after she replaced the telephone handset, Ruth said nothing. Just the slight tremor in her hands as she raised a glass of water to her dry lips betrayed her surging nerves. Only Malcolm, sat beside her and tracking Ros' progress at the Gangster Inn, noticed her sudden change of demeanour. He had been about to tell her something, she could see it in the way he his mouth opened but then closed suddenly again. He was frowning, but now he arranged his face into an expression of mild concern.

"Ruth," he said mildly, "has something happened?"

It seemed to take Ruth a moment to realise that Malcolm spoken to her. She started, as though jolted out of a private daydream, then hesitated. Like she wanted to protect Malcolm from the news, but everyone would know soon enough, anyway.

"Red flash from Jo," she explained flatly, "bomb explosion at New Scotland Yard."

It took a moment for him to connect the dots, then a looking of grim comprehension crossed his usually affable features. "Lucas," he said, "he's still in there."

Ruth gave a jerky nod of her head, confirming that. There was something more coming, she could almost taste it.

"I spoke to him barely ten minutes ago; before he went dark," said Malcolm. "He was making for the cells to free the prisoner."

"He's still in there," she added the last bit for him.

The look on his face told her all she needed to know. Without another word, she turned and walked towards Harry's office. He was hunched over some paperwork, pen scratching away as he amended, corrected and redacted the nameless, faceless bureaucrat's latest strands of red tape. Upholding the Section D tradition of walking straight in without so much as an introductory knock at the door, the look on her face silenced his usual snappy protest.

"Ruth, what is it?"

To him, Ruth's heart was an open book – a rare thing in their line of work. The tilt of her head, the purposeful stride, all bore the hallmarks of bad news. Ruth briefed him on the latest red flash as she herself had heard it. His expression, normally so passively unreadable, darkened considerably. She swallowed, trying to loosen the words in the dry, constricted throat.

"That's not all, Harry," she said, "Lucas is still in there. He was on his way to free the prisoner when the device went off. He's probably in there now, dead or trapped."

"Shit!" he cursed, dropping the pen and running a hand through his hair.

When they looked at each other again, a mutual understanding passed between them. She knew that Harry felt he had let Lucas down before; left him to fester in a Russian prison cell for eight years, let him believe himself abandoned and forgotten by his own organisation. They had danced in circles around each other ever since: Harry allowing Lucas free reign to prove himself, and Lucas taking risks to achieve those same ends. The bitter irony of what had now befallen Lucas was not lost on either of them.

However, the course of action was already clear to Harry. She could see it in the way his jaw set firm and his expression became fiercely resolute.

"Is Malcolm still guarding Ros?" he asked, getting to his feet and reaching for his overcoat.

"Yes."

"Good. Then I am on my way to get my Intelligence Officer back."

Ruth smiled. "And I'm coming with you," she replied.

Stopping suddenly, half way to the door, he turned to look at her in surprise; as though he'd expected her to try and dissuade him. Instead, he returned the smile and picked up his pace as they passed out onto the Grid. "Let's get to it, then."

* * *

Bookings, bookings and more bookings. Managing a bar really was quite simple, or so Ros thought. She sat in the public bar of Charlie Weir's pub, one ear on the news on the bar's widescreen TV; the other on the discussion Weir himself was having with another man not two feet away from her. All the while, she kept her eye fixed firmly on the large hard backed reservation book that she found behind the bar. None of her attention was really on that. Occasionally, she even risked a sidelong glance at her target, trying to decipher his body language and pick up snippets of unguarded conversation. Occasionally, he would look back at her as though he'd sensed her curiosity all along. The uncomfortable truth was that he unnerved her and that was half the battle lost, as far she was concerned.

She looked back at the reservation book and gave herself a mental shakedown. 'Come on, Rosalind,' she inwardly goaded herself.

"This is it now, Charlie."

She just caught Weir's guest pointing out, but she couldn't say for sure what it was in relation to. But a silence fell over the two men and they both turned to the news screen. Ros, also, surreptitiously abandoned her pretence at bar management and listened intently to what the news anchor was saying.

"The explosion inside New Scotland Yard occurred at 3.15pm. As yet, no one from within the Metropolitan Police Force has been available for comment, but there have been unconfirmed reports from a news agency that militant Islamic terrorists were sighted in the vicinity in recent days…"

Ros absorbed the impact of the news with barely a flinch, but inwardly panic swelled. She waited, motionless, as she steadied her breathing and bided her time. After a few minutes had passed, and Weir and his guest had risen to leave, she too got up and walked the length of the bar towards the ladies toilets. In an attempt to act naturally, she smiled and nodded at the barman who had greeted her enthusiastically when she'd arrived earlier that day. Aware that she had already aroused suspicion, she even stopped to exchange some pleasantries as she went.

Her hands were shaking, however, as she pushed open the swing door and entered the ladies. She bolted the cubicle behind her and reached for her mobile to call the Grid.

"Malcolm, that bomb at the Station," she said the moment his familiar voice answered. "I think these people here knew about it; they were waiting for it to come on the news. I don't know for certain, but it seemed like they were. I heard something earlier, too, but I didn't get a bloody recording. They knew Lucas would be there and, shit Malcolm, I think they're on to me, too!"

"Wait, wait!" Malcolm implored on the opposite end of the line. "Ros, stay calm but keep your wits about you. The others have all gone to the Station to make sure Lucas is all right, but I can get CO19 back up to you if you need it."

Ros took a few deep breaths as he suggested, but it didn't do much good as her thoughts turned to Lucas, on top of everything else. She tried to reassure herself with the knowledge of CO19 being just moments away.

"Give me more time," she replied. "They've been leaving me be for the last few hours. I think I might just be winning their trust after all, and I want to see if I can pick up more information about this bomb. If I need urgent back up I'll send you a blank text message. Got that?"

"Only if you're sure, Ros," Malcolm said. "Got that."

She disconnected the call and let herself sink to the floor. She needed a moment to compose herself. So, she distracted herself by reading the graffiti scrawled on the tiles of the cubicle she had locked herself in. The usual lurid details of sexual encounters emblazoned on the, otherwise brilliant white, tiles. A scrawled testament to the club's utter lack of any form of class. Once the distraction had worked its magic, she got up and quietly slid back the lock on the cubicle door and stepped outside. As she did so, she just caught the main door of the toilets shutting, and heard footsteps rushing down the bar.

"Shit!" she hissed, realising straight away that someone had been listening.

It had to be the barman and Ros knew she could make mince-meat of him. Without turning a hair, she threw open the door and gave chase just as he rounded the bar. She was gaining on him fast, but as he exited through the back doors of the bar, Weir and his friend were already there, lying in wait.

Weir smiled at her, really quite affably. "Going somewhere, Ms Myers?" he asked, sickening grin widening.

* * *

Dust swirled in the darkness, choking Jo and Clara as they clung to each other, probing their way through the bombed out Police Station. The silence was broken by the crackle of electricity, live wires sparking into life before abruptly giving up the ghost. A water pipe had burst, adding to the danger of the live wires, and dripped down ceaselessly from invisible leaks. The sound of crumbling plaster as walls gave way was regular, making the two women curse fluidly with fear.

"Stay close, Clara," Jo repeated as a mantra.

Normally, in such darkness, Jo would hug the walls. But the structure was so unstable that even that recourse was blocked to her. Instead, she and Clara clung to each other's hands as they passed through what was the Reception area. A shaft of sunlight made it in through the rubble that had almost blocked the door way, illuminating the path a few feet ahead of them. Clara stopped, pointed it out to Jo.

"There," she said, "that must be the way to the cells."

Jo squinted, the sudden light hard on her eyes that had become accustomed to the darkness. The light stopped, however, at fallen roof beams that barred the door to the corridor they needed.

Unwilling to admit defeat so soon, Clara carried on, even picking up her pace to reach the door way, dodging the detritus that blocked her path.

"The door's open!" she cried back to Jo. "We can climb over and get in!"

Somewhere in the depths of the building, masonry continued to fall. The sounds, amplified by the emptiness of the place, resonated down to where the two women cautiously commandeered the obstacles in their path. They stopped what they were doing every time it happened, looked about themselves in fear, their hearts hammering furiously. Soon, however, Clara was the first over the fallen beams. She waited on the other side for Jo to follow. However, as Jo placed her second foot on the beam to jump down the other side, it gave way under her weight.

"Fuck!" she cursed heavily as she fell into Clara's arms.

"I've got you!" Clara panted breathlessly back.

On the other side, they found themselves in darkness again. But it was the corridor they needed, Jo could just pick out the cell doors left conveniently open for them. They paused at the end of the corridor to get their breath back.

"You okay?" Jo asked Clara.

She didn't see it, but Clara nodded. "Oh I'm grand!" she replied, still breathless. Then, she laughed. "I'm sorry. I work in a Customer Care call centre for British Telecom. It's not every day I bust into bombed buildings to help rescue MI5 spies trapped in police cells. If I didn't laugh, I'd cry."

Jo grinned. "You're very brave, Clara. If you want to stop at any time, there's no shame in it. You didn't chose this."

"No way!" the other woman retorted, and Jo was secretly pleased.

Cautiously, they made their way down the corridor. Most of the doors had been blown off their hinges as they had been left open. However, it was silent. A silence that hung over the whole place like a funeral shroud. Not even the crumbling bricks could be heard; just the distant sirens from the car park outside. Jo had avoided calling out as thought the sound of her voice would bring down the rest of walls. But this close, she could no longer hold back.

"Lucas!"

The echo faded down the deserted corridor, followed by silence. Both women strained their ears, listening for even the most remote sign of life within the cells. Scared to walk on lest their footfalls would drown the sound of a response, they waited.

"Lucas!" both Jo and Clara called out in unison, now.

Again, silence. But after a few seconds, they sank to their knees in relief as someone, albeit not Lucas, called back: "In here!"

Hearing another's voice emboldened Jo enough to pick herself up and run the rest of the way through the holding cells. Clara, however, was quick on her heels, following the sound of the voice.

"Is that Alexei?" asked Jo as she ran straight into the still locked door of the cell.

"Yes," came the reply.

Then, a second wave of relief as Lucas finally made himself head. "Jo?"

"Yeah, it's me: Jo!" she called back, hammering on the cell door in triumph. "Sit tight Lucas, we can get you out of here!"

* * *

They blocked the exit. Ros couldn't slip past them, so she knew she needed to fight. The knowledge of it brought her round and back into her right senses. If she was going to be taken out by a jumped up Gangster, then she would make sure as hell she went out fighting. She bought herself some time by shrinking back towards the door she'd just come through, even though she knew rightly the 'friendly' barman was waiting to block her exit. She feigned fear.

"H-how did you know my real name?" she asked, stammering for effect as she built up the adrenaline to fight.

Weir smirked, the effect firing Ros up for when moment to strike came.

He tapped the tip of his nose, about to make some condescending reply when Ros brought her elbow sharply into the barman's stomach, making him cry out and double over in pain. With him writhing on the floor at her feet, she punched Weir's henchman directly in the face before he could even formulate a reaction, never mind actually carry it out.

"Fuck you!" she hissed in Weir's face as she went for him.

She managed to land a blow to the side of his head as she brought her knee up violently in to his crotch. However, as she knew all along, two men were always going to be too much for her, and even the third was battling against the pain he was in to re-join the fracas. All the same, she didn't stop until she was truly over-powered. The barman had an arm around her throat with her arms pinned behind her back; completely immobilised. She was forced to look into Charlie Weir's face as he swiftly recovered his composure and hit the call button on his mobile.

"Hello Frankie," he said, all smiles again after his brush with the wrath of Ros Myers. "Get yourself round here now. You'll never guess what I've got for you, now."


	9. The Round Table

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply; I own none of this. Thanks again for reading and, as always, reviews would be most welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: The Round Table**

It was barely an hour after the explosion when Ruth stepped out of the car to be greeted by a wall of blaring sirens; blue lights flashing like a disco in a warzone. The walking wounded, a travesty of revellers swaying into the open backs of ambulances. Then there was the dead. Arranged in a neat row, shrouded in plain white sheets, blood leaking out from beneath to form a stream of gore leaking down the guttering like a busted water pipe. The uninjured – at least physically – sat on the kerb cradling themselves as they watched, in a cloud of utter bewilderment, the world turn itself upside down.

Harry appeared at her side from the opposite side of their car and, unthinkingly, her hand reached for his. Just for a moment, they grasped each other, exchanged a sidelong glance for reassurance before slipping on their professional masks, steeling themselves for whatever lay ahead. Ever the gentleman, Harry held up the police line tape for her step under. As she turned to thank him, she found her words cut off.

"Hold it, there!" the man's voice bellowed above the sirens. "No one is to go beyond this point. Step back! Step back now!"

They both turned in time to see a flustered, dust-covered Policeman bearing down on them. Ruth then looked to Harry, whose expression was turning thunderous. "Will you tell him to bugger off, or shall I?" she asked.

"You can't deny me the pleasure," he replied, the old twinkle back in his eye.

"Did you hear me?" the Policeman asks taking them both for idiots. "I said step back from the line!"

Ruth stepped back, letting Harry have a clear view of his next victim. Ultimate satisfaction for a stressful day.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he asked, fixing the unfortunate Officer in a death glare. "In fact, don't answer that because I don't bloody well care…"

The Policeman suddenly looked as sheepish as a spanked toddler; Ruth almost felt sorry for him. She suppressed a smile and turned to the wreckage of the building. Lucas was still in there and she had to struggle against the urge to simply rush in and start digging through the rubble herself. The doors were blown wide open, she could see into the Reception area. Anyone in that part of building, had it not been evacuated, would have taken the full force of the blast.

She strained her eyes to see beyond the Reception desk, but it was in darkness. However, a small movement caught her eye. Some masonry falling? Possibly. She stepped away from Harry, closer to the building. The darkness shifted again, but any sound was drowned out by the sirens still blaring in the background and the revving engines of ambulances and fire engines.

"Harry," she said, briefly glancing over her shoulder.

He did not hear her; he was still remonstrating with the Policeman. When she looked back towards the building, her view was blocked by a posse of firefighters carrying cutting equipment. She wanted to push them out of the way, but then they passed and she saw them. Lucas leaning against Jo as she half dragged, half carried him out of the building. Clara was close behind, guiding a young man she had not seen before.

She almost fainted with relief. "Harry!" she called, louder and firmer. "Never mind him, it's Lucas and Jo!" She pulled his sleeve and almost hauled him away from the Officer.

There was a cut open above his temple; hit on the head at some point. A black eye blossoming, livid against his pale skin. His leg seemed injured, but otherwise, all appeared well. Even Harry, the man of few visible emotions, sagged with relief as he saw his Senior Case Officer emerging from the wreckage of the Station. The two men looked at each other for a moment.

"Hello Harry," said Lucas, a lop-sided grin spreading across his face.

Ruth didn't get the joke, but Harry seemed to as he burst out laughing. "Welcome back, Lucas. God forbid, I thought we'd lost you for a moment, there."

* * *

Ros held still. She relaxed her whole body before the plasticuffs that bound her hands together could cut into the flesh at her wrists. Bound behind the back of the chair they had her trussed up in, the way out was far from clear. Reluctantly, she had to admit that she was at their mercy. The worst part by far, however, was the way in which the others in the room acted as though she was not there, like she was just part of the furnishings.

Her friendly barman, Charlie Weir and two of his henchmen sat at a wide, circular table in the middle of the bar room talking quietly amongst themselves. Her mind raced for reasons why they had not yet killed her. However, as she forced herself to relax, the effect spread from her body to her mind. Taking slow, deep breaths she could concentrate on what was being said; her mission was not over, and she was not defeated, until she was dead.

"….anyone called Frankie, yet?" the barman asked.

"He's on his way. So is Mortimer. I think he's bringing us another MI5 Officer. Said he found one sneaking about his Station before we blew it up," replied Mortimer.

Ros closed her eyes, blanked out images of Lucas and concentrated every fibre of her being into staying calm and level headed. They had dropped their guards; they were already acting as though she were dead; they had already made their first mistake. They were taking things for granted. To make herself that little bit more invisible, she let her head tilt to one side, eyes still closed. It would look as though she had passed out and they wouldn't bother with her at all, then. At least, not until they got the audience they were currently waiting for.

Ros opened one eye just a fraction and checked the clock behind the bar. It was five o'clock. She checked again roughly three hours later. It was quarter past five. Her adrenaline was back up and she almost screamed in frustration and boredom. She was itching for the fight she was beginning to fear would not come. Then finally, at half past the hour, the bar room doors swung open and two more men entered. One was the Police Chief Lucas was spying on, but the other was Frankie Morris. Lucas was nowhere in sight and if she had been the praying type, she would have sent up a silent prayer of thanks at that moment.

"Welcome, gentlemen," Weir called over to the new arrivals. "Come and join us. Look, we have a guest from Her Majesty's Secret Service joining us!"

He gestured to Ros, who decided it was time to stop playing dead. She feigned grogginess, pretending to come around as she looked at them each in turn, committing it all to memory. She even raised a smile. "Afternoon, Gentlemen."

Weir nodded to the barman who immediately strode over to Ros, pulling her out of her seat. To resist would only succeed in antagonising them, so she went with it, letting him walk her over to the table where they were all sitting. It had been pulled into the middle of the bar room. A round table, like something out of Arthurian legend. The windows were shuttered and a bar spotlight was switched on overhead. All she could see then where the men, the gangsters of the round table. Directly opposite her sat Charlie Weir. To his left was Frankie Morris and to his right was Thomas Mortimer. She sensed an interrogation coming on.

"Your colleague is dead," Mortimer stated. "I saw to it myself. Tragic really. A promising young Chief Superintendent so busy saving others that he didn't make it out in time to save himself." Mortimer paused for effect, as though he'd cracked a joke and was waiting for the others to laugh appreciatively. They didn't. "Except, you and I both know that's bollocks, don't we?" He grinned.

She knew what he was doing; he was fishing for information and not doing a very good job of it. He wants her to blow Lucas' cover and get an emotional rise out of her to boot. Their anticipation of an emotional meltdown fortified her own defences. She kept her expression neutral, her mind washed almost blank. Her half-smile benign. "What's bollocks?" she asked. "That he's dead? Well, that's good to know."

Mortimer got up, leant on the table leering through the poor light at her. But she was more interested in Weir. He was their leader, the one pulling all the strings. Yet, he was holding back, glancing sidelong at the two men on either side of him. His expression was unreadable, even to her.

"Are there any others?" Mortimer asked, bringing her wandering attention back to him.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered matter of factly. She needed to keep them talking, to buy herself some time. The plasticuffs were digging into her wrists again; she could feel the blood leaking into her clenched hands. But still her expression remained benign, her training overriding all of her other senses. "Why don't you tell me what you think? Does it concern you that we know all about what you're doing, yet you have no idea of what we've done to you?"

Weir laughed quietly to himself, drawing Ros' attention back to him. However, none of the others seemed to have noticed.

"We run this patch now," Frank Morris chimed in over the Chief Superintendent. "Here and the East End. Is that what you're interested in? You want to know who's doing what and to who? Was it O'Casey brought you to us? Or that girl of his, the journalist?"

Ros studied him intently for a minute. He didn't look nervous, but he was pulling at the loose threads in his shirtsleeves, a tell tale sign of stress. He's dissembling, sensing that someone somewhere is double-dealing.

"You knew she was a journalist, then?" asked Ros. "Is that why you killed him? He managed to get semtex for you, didn't he? The same semtex you've just used to blow up a load of innocent people in a Police Station. Didn't O'Casey use his Dissident friends in the North to get that for you?"

Morris laughed, all tension draining from him as he sat back in his seat.

"What's so funny?" asked Ros, genuinely curious and seizing an opportunity to keep these talks going.

Frankie fell silent, raised his gaze to meet hers. "Oh how wrong you are," he retorted. "He was the one trying to stop it. He knew too much; he interfered too much. He had to go."

It dawned on her then. O'Casey died because he refused to hand over the detonators, the ones she had Lucas found in his flat. She composed herself quickly, letting the revelation wash over her.

"You murdered his fiancé, Roisin, to break him down. He held fast. Refused to support your little Gangster war, refused to let you wreak havoc on the streets of London, so you killed him for it," she summarised, the pieces of the jigsaw finally falling into place. If she got out this situation, she resolved, she would see to it that O'Casey got the full funeral he deserved for his bravery.

"Finally, she gets it," Morris replied. "Now, you know what we're doing. It's only fair you tell us what you're doing."

"She doesn't."

Ros was still reeling from what Morris had said, so she didn't catch who spoke. It wasn't Mortimer, or the friendly barman. They all, however, were looking at Weir. Finally, he was stepping into the fray.

He got to his feet and slowly paced around the table in a perfect circle, just wide of them all. "She doesn't know what's going on," he repeated. "There isn't going to be a Gang war, what sort of a man do you take me for?"

Ros decided not to answer that question. So, it seemed, did everyone else there.

"There will be no merger, no rivalry no power-sharing executive of businessmen," he pressed the point home. Morris was looking at him, his eyes charting Weir's progress around the table until he couldn't see without turning around. It was clear from his expression that Weir had, as far he was concerned, gone way off script.

Weir paused directly behind Morris, his supposed new business partner. Ros held her breath as she caught the brief glimmer of metal – a handgun being draw. Instinctively, she leaned right, out of the way of the bullet's trajectory before he even pulled the trigger. The blast made the breath hitch in her throat, and she almost slumped to the side. She turned her face away, a futile effort to stop the blood and gore of the dead man from smattering her face.

* * *

"No really, I'm fine," Lucas protested as the nurse eased him back on the bed. They tried to tell him he was concussed. But there was no more headache; he wasn't seeing double and he hadn't been sick at all. However, resistance was futile, especially after Ruth moved in to back the nurse up.

"Just one night, Lucas. You can be back on the Grid in a few days. Just rest for now, you've done all you can."

He heaved a sigh, looking to Harry for back up. Surely, he would understand. Hard hearted Harry, live for the job no matter what; would back him up. However, Lucas' heart sank as Harry moved to stand beside Ruth. He should have known that, above all things, he would take Ruth's side. What was it Ros called her? His "rose-tinted blind spot".

"I'm afraid Ruth's right, Lucas," he said, trying to look sympathetic and sound fatherly at the same time. "You're extremely lucky, and returning to the arena so soon after a trauma could be pushing that exceptional luck just a little too far."

His defeat was unanimous. Without further protest he held out his hand for the nurse to attach an IV line, pre-emptively fending off the threat of dehydration. He made his feelings known through well timed, regular, sighs of impatience and an unscripted wince of pain as the needle of the IV line sunk into the vein at the back of his hand. Luckily, it was drowned out by the sound of Harry's phone ringing. Just as Lucas was about to strike up conversation with Ruth, he found himself distracted by the conversation Harry had taken to the other side of the curtain around his bed.

"Hello, Malcolm," said Harry, "slow down, and start from the beginning."

This was followed by a lengthy silence during which Ruth made obvious attempts to distract Lucas. Harder to do now that the Nurse had finished inserting the IV and had gone to fetch a saline bag to fit onto it.

"Are you okay?" Ruth asked, a little over-brightly.

"Yeah, fine. What's going on?"

"Lucas!" she scolded warningly, flashing him one her sternest looks.

"What?" he asked, shrugging. "I'm only asking-"

"Ros is deep shit," he said, clearly flustered. "Malcolm said she went dark over an hour ago; the last time they spoke she said her cover had been blown."

Ruth paled. "Oh God," she replied, breathing hard. "Are CO19 on the way?"

"Yes," replied Harry, "and so are we."

Lucas had already pulled his IV line clean out of his arm and was reaching for his clothes.

"I meant 'we', not 'you', Lucas," Harry snapped.

But Lucas was having none of it. "Don't test me, Harry," he retorted. "Either you take me with you or I'll just follow you. I don't care if you decommission me, either."

Then came the stand-off. They stood, eye to eye, each staring hard at the other. After a full, tense minute, Harry sagged, deflating almost as he backed down. "Come on then," he said, already turning to leave. "But you're readmitted straight after this is resolved, no matter what the outcome."

Fair's fair, and Lucas nodded his agreement as he pulled his jeans back on.

The Hospital he was in was packed with casualties of the bomb. Lucas tried to estimate the number as he passed the wards on the way out, but gave up in the face of sheer numbers.

"Harry!" he called after his boss. "Mortimer, the man I was sent to shadow. It was him who locked me in the cell, he knew where I'd come from. What if he's at Weir's bar now, sussing out Ros. It's the only explanation I can think of."

Harry's answer was interrupted by his phone, just as they reached the Hospital doors. "Malcolm, what's the latest?" A pause, followed by: "how many? Just the one?"

Both Lucas and Ruth paused to look at him as he disconnected. His expression was grave as he answered their unspoken question. "There's already been reports of at least one gun shot."

Without speaking another word, all three advanced on their car. No more quibbles or rows about who should be in Hospital and how long for. They weren't stopping until they reached the scene of the shooting.


	10. Beyond the Call of Duty

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Usual disclaimers apply: I own nothing. Thank you again for reading and I hope everyone enjoys the story. Reviews would be most welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Beyond the Call of Duty  
**

As the blast of the gun sounded, Ros instinctively flinched, trying to pull apart her bound wrists. The plasticuffs dug deeper into her wrists, the pain the only thing keeping her anchored to the right side of consciousness. The dead man's blood was cold against her flushed skin, the sensation making her own, mercifully living, flesh crawl. It was nothing she hadn't seen before, but every time there was always a moment when she wanted to vomit. She gulped hard against the gorge as she shut her eyes, willing the nausea to subside. She clasped her hands tightly behind her back to distract herself momentarily from what had just happened. It was then that she noticed the loosening of the cuffs.

She froze, took a deep breath in case she had simply imagined it. She used the time to gage what everyone else was doing. Weir, who had just killed his colleague, was pouring himself a stiff drink from the optics behind the bar. If he looked in the mirror, he would be able to see her cuffs coming loose. The barman was already getting up to move Morris's corpse before it had any more time to spoil their mock-marble flooring. The Chief Superintendent, however, had turned completely white and was visibly trembling. No one was looking at anyone else, and Ros slowly, painfully, manoeuvred her thumb from within its bindings. That was easy enough, but getting her index finger out was going to be trickier.

Finally, Weir returned to the table, once the barman had dragged the corpse away. Ros turned to her right to admire the livid red streak Morris had left along the floor, a go-faster streak of gore leading out to the cellar. Then, her attention was caught again by Weir.

"That's one problem solved," he remarked to no one in particular. "Now, where were we?"

His steel-grey eyes flitted between Ros and the Chief Superintendent, daring one of them to make the first move. By now, Ros had loosed her cuffs to free her index and middle finger. She had fitted enough plasticuffs in her time to know their weak spots from here on in, and she was able to undo the catch, and then grab them with one hand before their hit the floor and caught anyone's attention.

Weir smiled ingratiatingly. "Looks like I killed the conversation as well as the opposition," he laughed mirthlessly. "Surely someone's got something to say?"

A half-smile twitched at the corner of Ros' lip. "There's something wrong with this table, you know," she said, nodding towards it. "It's very uneven."

Weir looked as though he'd missed the punch line in a bad joke. His smile froze into a scowl as he looked down in bewilderment. The Superintendent was still shell shocked. Ros then threw her whole strength into upending the table before Weir realised she was deliberately distracting him. It was heavy, it was cumbersome, but channelling every ounce of pent up anger and rage into it, she brought the whole thing down on top of her captors with a crash that resounded through the bar.

"Fucking bitch!" Weir shouted as he tried to push the table off him.

But Ros was already on to the Chief Superintendent who'd managed to jump clear of the table before she upended it. He was still slow, but he almost managed to punch her before she kicked him square in the stomach. He doubled over, crying out in pain and she slammed her fist into his face as he lurched forwards. Blood spilled from his busted lip as he hit the floor at Ros' feet. By the time he was done, Weir was back on his feet. His shirt was torn; his jacket loose and his hair a mess. He was in pain and breathless with the shock of the attack. Before she even knew what she was doing, Ros had grabbed a chair and swung it with all the force she could muster into Weir's head. He blocked the full weight of the blow with his forearm, but it was still enough to send him reeling backwards. His head bounced off the bar as he fell. It made Ros laugh.

"I should've known," she said, panting; getting the words out between ragged breaths. "You're no fighter, Charlie. You've got others to do that for you."

Outside, a car engine screeched to a halt. Her heartbeat raced, dreading who was turning up for the party, now. Either way, she was done. She couldn't arrest the man and now, she had no more strength to fight him as he had no will power to fight her. She lurched painfully towards the door, trying to play down the aching, nagging, injuries to her wrists. As she pushed herself through the swing doors, she heard the barman returning from doing whatever he did to Morris's body. She picked up the pace, fearing he would catch her up, as she made for the exit.

The all but threw herself against the doors, relishing the feeling of them giving way. She breathed the open air and looked up at the clear blue skies, stretching out endlessly over head. A surge of adrenaline let her know she was still alive. When she looked back into the street outside the bar, the occupants of the car were getting out in rather a hurry.

Ros smiled, recognition washing over her. The three people who got out of the car all stopped dead in their tracks as they looked at her. She didn't see them all at first. Just the first two: Harry, followed by Ruth. Then Lucas brought up the vanguard, and her spirits soared. There were no words to describe seeing them again, so she wouldn't bother trying.

"What took you so long?" she asked, feigning an air of nonchalance. "You missed all the fun."

The men in black materialised from the shadows. CO19. Ros sidestepped, clearing the doorway to let them in. It really was game over for Weir and his little helpers, now.

"Ros," said Harry, seemingly just for the satisfaction of saying her name.

She knew how she must look to them. She was covered in someone elses blood, battered and bloody (her own) and barely able to stand. However, her gaze fell on Lucas, taking in his whole appearance. She gave him a nod – gesture that brought a spasm of pain.

"That's a nasty cut you've got there," she remarked, just to give them all some irony to laugh at.

Lucas grinned that lop-sided grin. "Oh it was awful!" he replied. "You look great, by the way. That design really suits you."

He held out his hand to help her, and she gratefully took it.

* * *

The following day, and the headlines raged about corruption at the very heart of the Metropolitan Police force. Each sensational front page adorned with two pictures of Chief Superintendent Thomas Mortimer: a sort of before and after. One showed him at his all-powerful prime, the other showed him being led out of Charlie Weir's bar in handcuffs with a towel over his head.

Lucas had to admire the effect as he queued to pay for his morning chocolate croissant. Ros was right beside him, yogurt and apple in hand, careful to avoid looking at the tabloids. She kept looking down the queue instead, clicking her tongue impatiently.

"Where the bloody hell do all these people actually come from?" she asked.

Lucas pondered that for a moment. "It's London, isn't it," he answered, philosophically.

She pursed her lips as she turned her disdainful face to his. "That's not an answer."

Her wrists were bound, but her spirits were undented. The same applied to them both. Nothing would stop them, or so it seemed to each of them as they paid up and stepped back out into the early Spring sunshine. They followed the Thames on foot, the car they shared having been left outside Lucas' flat where they both spent the night, neither wanting to be alone. Together, they arrived at Thames House and stepped through the doors, wandered past the pods and greeted their fellow workers, just as they always did. It was business as usual.

* * *

As the meeting commenced, Harry was contemplative. He leaned back in his chair, surveying each of his Officers in turn. They were all present, all on time, normally he would have been pleased. However, he heaved a sigh and seemed resigned to some fate much higher than his own.

"Sometimes, in this life, I do wonder why I bother," he said, caressing the side of his coffee cup as though it would magically turn into a double whiskey.

Ruth, sat at Harry's right; Lucas, Ros, Malcolm, Jo and Ben all stiffened in their seats. They all waited for the calm waters of their boss to break, and for him to launch into some tirade of failures and frustrations from above. But, instead, he pointed first to Lucas and then to Ros.

"I did mention to you, and to you, that you should rest," he moaned. "Alas, here you are anyway. I don't know why I expected to be listened to-"

"Oh come on, Harry," Ros cut across him. "If we did that you'd be bored."

Ruth grinned, while the others relaxed visibly.

"Is this it, then?" asked Jo. "Case closed?"

"I think so," replied Harry, addressing the room as a whole. "We have the witnesses, Clara and Alexei, under heavy protection. We have our perpetrators behind bars. We know why the murders happened, and we know that the Gangland merger is not going to happen. All in all, well played everyone."

There was a moment of silence in which everyone silently digested the news.

"What next for our witnesses? Are they definitely giving evidence at the trials?" asked Lucas, eventually.

"They're already giving statements as we speak," Jo answered. "I'm still helping Clara and Ben's agreed to help Alexei. They both know they'll have to go into witness protection once it's all over."

They had the ringleaders, but they could never be naïve enough to think they'd rooted out the whole problem. There were dozens, if not hundreds, of career criminals waiting to step into the vacant shoes of Frankie Morris and Charlie Weir. Through greed or a lust for power and control, or a heady mix of all, they made sure the cycle continued. But for that moment, the east end had become a little safer – even if only for the time being.

* * *

Clara fumbled with her loose change as she tried to slot it into the drinks machine. Ever since the blast she'd been a bag of nerves. Maybe it was seeing all those bodies, or just the trauma of the last few weeks. But it was almost over now. She'd gone above and beyond the call of duty in her quest to bring the sorry matter to a close, and now she was going to spend the rest of her life in hiding. Somewhere else. Far from home. Her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. She had done the right thing; there was nothing she would not do again.

She made another attempt at the change, and it spilled to the wooden floor in the lobby of the new Police Station she was in. Her guards were at the door, watching her in mild amusement.

"Thanks for all your help, lads!" she muttered as she bent down to collect her fallen coins.

Someone beat her to it. The young man stooped quickly, picking up the fallen pieces one by one and handing them back to her with a smile. It was Alexei.

"Allow me," he said, in heavily accented English and slotting coins into the machine with a much steadier hand. "If it were not for these …" he broke off, finding the right English words… "conditions they put us under, I would take you out for a real drink. To thank you for your hard work in getting me out of that prison; for realising they had framed me."

He sounded sad, his gaze was downcast. She thought him the gentlest man she ever met.

"Well, one day, Alexei, who knows," she replied, smiling from ear to ear.

She offered her hand, and led him to the canteen. She wasn't intending on going there, otherwise she wouldn't have bothered getting lukewarm ditch water from the vending machine. But now that Alexei had arrived in her life, she had a feeling she would better off getting to know him. Because surely, even something as bad as this can have a happy ending? He followed her in, probably thinking the exact same thing.

* * *

The meeting was over, but Ben lingered on. Seeing him, Ros and Lucas instinctively followed suit. Harry remained seated, anyway. He was like a teacher, sometimes, seeing his unruly pupils out after morning class. He looked up at Ben curiously, gesturing for him to continue.

"I've been on to some old journo friends about that Police Chief," he said. "The corrupt one, you know."

"Yes, I think I remember," Harry answered, half-smiling.

"Well, this has shaken the Government. They're telling me that the Prime Minister is facing a vote of no confidence."

Ros and Lucas moved to stand side by side, watching Harry's reaction carefully. He absorbed the impact with barely a shadow of a frown.

"It's not surprising," he finally replied. "If it wins, the PM will be force to ask Her Majesty to dissolve Parliament and there will be a General Election."

Ros' mouth twitched, a faint laugh as though trying to pass it off as a joke. "But surely they won't succeed? What Government votes itself out of power?"

Lucas ran a hand through his hair. "If the Opposition joins forces with the Independents and the Lib Dems, they'll swing the motion and force the PM's hand."

"And that's exactly what is going to happen," Ben concluded.

The clock was yet to strike Noon, and already a whole new can of national problems had been busted open. The Gangsters were forgotten already, and no one could say they were missed.

**~The End~**

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Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I really appreciate it and it's made my first, rather experimental, Spooks fanfic a pleasure to write. Thank you again.


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